Rivals
by Heath Wingwhit
Summary: A persistent Aveline tries to make an icy Hawke see the error of her ways. Aveline x Hawke
1. The Captain of the Guard

A/N: Wrote this forever ago but didn't bring it back when I returned to this site. For anyone who wants some Aveline and FemHawke! This was originally a one shot but I think I'll do a follow up chapter. Also, blast this for not allowing me partial breaks...

* * *

Hawke walks to the small grove in Hightown, enclosed by stern iron fence. Not many people can be buried here. Hawke is only happy to have had the coin to make the appropriate accommodations. She walks over the fresh grass, still wet with the rain of hours ago and sees that Aveline has arrived before her. Aveline's armor glints in the sunlight. Her hair is the color of newly minted copper. Hawke doesn't look at Aveline. "You still bring her flowers? She wasn't your mother."

"Leandra was a fine woman. Kirkwall lost a good citizen to Quentin's madness."

Hawke stoops in front of the grave, touching a hand to the marble headstone where her mother's name is deeply etched. Hawke could speak to Aveline of her regrets about the loss of her mother but it's been years and there's little use in doing so now.

"I know it's been some time but I still worry about you, Hawke." There's a pregnant pause. "How are you dealing with it all?"

"Remember how you told me to not ask about Wesley, Aveline? Don't ask about my mother. Don't ask about my sister and brother." It would have been nice if they could all have been buried together, at least. She touches the colorful petals of the flowers that Aveline has brought. Her mother would appreciate the gesture. It's something that she should have thought of. Hawke has never had a talent for proofs of affection.

"The feelings you hold are none of my business?"

"That's right." Hawke's fingers fall away from the flowers.

"Fair enough. But I'm not giving up on you. I'm not leaving your side no matter how you shut me out."

Hawke rises. "Do what you bloody well like, Aveline. Just remember—you're Captain of the Guard and I'm an apostate." She turns and looks at her. "We aren't on the same side."

Aveline's hurt. The freckles on her face seem to stand out even more. Rays of sunlight make her eyes bright. "How can you say that after all these years? Haven't I proved myself to you?"

"Something's happening in Kirkwall. Something big. Measures will have to be taken and you're too just, too limited to take proper action. Don't expect me to hold back any longer for your sake." Aveline narrows her eyes. Hawke moves past her but stops at the entrance of the gates. "Just so we're clear, Aveline—I don't want you to involve me in any more of your pathetic personal affairs."

"What do you mean?"

"You can't be so stupid." Hawke says. She touches her finger to the sharp tip of the spade that sits atop of the fence. A bead of blood springs to the surface. Hawke looks at it, deliberates, wipes it on her jacket and leaves the cemetery.

* * *

Hawke knows Aveline's footsteps by the clink of her armor. It's no wonder they let so many criminals loose on the city. Anyone would hear their approach and hightail it on first notice. Not that she blames the criminals. Nor does she blame the apostates who run from the guard. Some, like Varric and Anders say that they've no real authority and are the templars bitches. Hawke remains seated at her desk chair, the heavy thoughts fogging her mind. She picks up the quill in an attempt to make corrections to Ander's manifesto but doesn't bother. Aveline's in her room. It's the first time she's ever dared to climb the stairs. Hawke stares at the assorted documents before her but doesn't turn to look at Aveline.

Aveline delves right into it. The woman has never had finesse with words or tact. "I forgive you, Hawke. It took years but I've finally done it. Sometimes when I think of it, I think I was only angry that I was the coward. It should have been me to finish things with Wesley but I let you be the one to slip the knife into his heart. I can't say it's ancient history—such things cut so deeply that they'll always be fresh in our hearts but even so…" Hawke doesn't say anything. Aveline takes on another tactic. "Don't you think it's time that you forgave yourself?"

Hawke's quiet. It's uncharacteristic of Aveline to discuss her feelings: a trait that once annoyed Hawke but one that she came to be grateful for as the years passed. Aveline's revelation isn't enough to prompt Hawke to bare her own feelings or disclose the guilt that she thought she'd always hidden well. What's the point? Feelings don't change anything; hard, efficient action does.

Aveline moves closer as if the reason for Hawke's silence is her inability to hear Aveline's words. "And can't you bring yourself to forgive me?"

Hawke stares coolly at her quill before fluidly rising to her feet and turning to look at Aveline. She crosses her arms lightly. The discussion is nothing worth getting worked up about. "What for?"

Aveline hesitates. She meets Hawke's eyes and then she doesn't. "For Donnic." Hawke doesn't react. She remains silent. Aveline continues. "Even Isabela comes around to see us. I'd much rather you visited."

"And see you play house with Donnic? I've better things to do, Aveline. You know that."

"Don't you ever think of anyone but yourself? You're more like Carver than I ever gave you credit for." She stands beside Hawke but faces the opposite direction, her eyes raking over the materials of Hawke's desk. She shakes her head with disapproval. "You're not really with Anders on all of this, are you? He's unbalanced. You ought to know better."

Hawke takes Aveline's arm and firmly pushes her away from the desk. "Easy words for someone who was born free of magic. We can't all have steel plates to our chests to hide behind. I envy your life, Aveline. Who needs free thought when you have the rules and laws of Kirkwall to guide you? You need not fear becoming tranquil."

Aveline rolls her fist. She rips her arm away and takes a threatening step towards Hawke. "You know that I don't like it when you talk that way. It's dangerous. Worst of all, it isn't true. Would it kill you to give me some credit? I could have turned you over to the templars many times over."

Hawke laughs, a brittle, dark sound. "I'd never let you have the chance, Aveline."

They stare heatedly at one another before Aveline stands down. Her curled fingers fall back to a more natural state at her side. "You disappoint me, Hawke. I thought we were more of this." She stampedes out of the room in her natural way. Aveline has never really learned how to be a woman.

Hawke's brow furrows. She sits back down but can't focus.

* * *

Hawke likes Darktown. Sure it smells and is filthy. It's filled with those that have been cast miserable lives; criminal activity runs rampant: but at least Darktown is upfront about it. Hightown hides its sins behind closed doors and Lowtown pretends to be better than both Hightown and Darktown—thinking itself the one part of the city that is filled with every mix of honest, hard working individuals. The truth is that all of Kirkwall is corrupt. At least in Darktown Hawke knows to be ready for the knife eager to stab into her back.

She makes her way to Anders' clinic. It's the middle of the night but he isn't alone. Hawke walks in to see him help a young woman to a sitting position. Her waist is bandaged. Anders tell her that it will be all right, that she ought to try to rest—and if she can't scrounge up purified water to cleanse the wound, to come see him. The woman stammers her thanks and rushes away, bowing lowly to Hawke. Hawke gives her a curt nod and watches her go before entering the clinic and shutting the door.

"I know it's late," Anders says apologetically. "There's been a rash of stabbings lately—people trying to get coin. Someone should tell those idiots that Darktown isn't the place to get it. You think you could point them in the way of the chantry and the templars? They can scarcely walk with all the coin they carry." Hawke doesn't crack a smile but that is not unusual. "Is something the matter?" She gives a shake of her head. "I can't say it's the smells of Darktown that bring you here. That woman was attractive. Are you jealous?" Her silence indicates she isn't. "Can I pretend you miss your boyfriend terribly, then?"

Hawke allows a barely there smile. "You can pretend that, yes."

Darktown isn't the most romantic of settings but it seems to mean something to Anders when she visits him there, despite the fact that he practically lives in the mansion with her. They make love on the dirty ground. Hawke rides Anders with a savage grace. Anders is strong and beautiful. He is a good man. He could be a better man were it not for the demons that torture him. His scarred hands travel over her, settling on her hips to pull her closer. She doesn't make a sound, only takes his face in her hands to meet his eyes. Anders says such lovely, earnest things. She closes her eyes, resting her forehead against him, letting his arms wrap tightly around her like a cage, letting his fire fill her. Sometimes she feels so very cold.

* * *

She needs a bath. Anders is always a gentleman in that he seldom allows her skin to graze the floor when they're together in his clinic. She calmly dresses while he prepares to close the clinic for the night. He'll join her at her home but will likely be back in only a few hours time. "You look tired," she tells him. "Maybe you should rest here. You'll get more sleep."

"And waste an opportunity for a proper bath and luxurious bed? Pass." Anders sweeps the floor with vigor, making sure to bag all the more questionable items. "It's not like you to come down here. I've known you for nearly ten years; I know when you're troubled." He stops, resting his arm atop of the broom. "Was it Aveline?" Hawke says nothing. "I thought as much. You let her get under your skin far too often. I always thought Donnic was too sensible to marry her. He's with us, you know, when the time comes. He won't stand by that bitch Meredith. I can't say the same for Aveline."

"Aveline will do what's right."

"Aveline will do what she _thinks _is right. Including handing us over to the templars bound and gagged if she sees fit." His voice grows more agitated and uncontrolled. "You shouldn't trust her. Sometimes I think—"

Hawke finishes dressing and turns to him. "Sometimes you think _what, _Anders?"

Anders frowns and rubs at his stubble. "Nothing. Forget I said anything."

She won't.

* * *

Aveline clears away the dinner plates. She and Donnic had made conversation about some of the more questionable decisions by Knight-Commander Meredith and some of the more unruly, brash templars. If the conversation was meant to mollify Aveline's mood it backfired and she is now in a sourer mood than previously. She settles the stack of dishes in the sink and runs the water.

Donnic stands beside her, finding a washcloth. "What's the matter?"

Aveline gathers the glasses that remain on kitchen table and sets them to the side of the counter, careful to not knock them over. They've broken more glasses lately than necessary. Maybe because her mind is usually so occupied when she's washing up. "It's Hawke."

"The Champion," Donnic says with a light sneer. His bemused expression indicates that he suspected nothing less. He takes the plate that she hands him and wipes it down with the drying cloth. "What has she done now?"

Aveline hurriedly turns down the water pressure when it catches awkwardly on a plate and begins to spray water everywhere. She shifts the plate and returns the water to the pressure of before. "Nothing. Yet."

Donnic wipes where the water sprayed and sets a plate to the side. "Why do you continue to let her trample over everything you uphold?"

"I don't." She frowns and looks at him. How can he say such a thing? "It isn't like that." She turns back to the dishes, not wanting to see his thick eyebrows arch in that smug, unmovable way of theirs. "It's Hawke. She's like a tyrannical child; she's not malicious. She just doesn't know what she's doing or how she comes across."

Donnic takes another plate from her. "Say that to the crowds who rally crying out her name. If you're not careful, Darling, she'll burn you."

Aveline thinks of Hawke and her often unreadable face; the detached way that she makes the most difficult of decisions. The way she never seems to look back. "She's too cold to burn anyone."

He chuckles. "Frost is as corrosive of a burn as anything, Aveline. Promise me you'll be careful. I fear you don't see her clearly."

The implication offends her but she doesn't want to fight about it. They often disagree about the woman. There's no need to cause a fuss when there's nothing good that will come of it. "Of course; who do you take me for?" The conversation is senseless. Hawke is her dearest, oldest friend. They don't have to agree on everything.

* * *

They're ambushed in the Free Marches. Aveline raises a shield just as the sword falls. One moment later and her skull would have been split open. Hawke surveys the surroundings. It's dark and she doesn't know the terrain well. There are only two of them and at least a dozen of gang members. Hawke brings her staff to the forefront but says nothing.

Aveline steps forward with a sense of righteous indignation. "How dare you attack us? I am the captain of the city guard and this is the Champion of Kirkwall! What quarrel do you hold against us? Stand down this instant and we'll let you walk with your lives."

Hawke hears their snickering. Aveline's speeches could only ever move the virtuous. All others found her speeches worthy of mockery. As suspected, her words have fallen on deaf ears. One of the men steps forward, an ugly scar across his cheek. He is older, or perhaps it is only the shadows of the night that make him seem that way. "Why do you think we've come to kill you, _Captain? _Captain of shit. Your law and rule means nothing here. We'll make a killing off of you." He grins. "Boys! Remember, there's nothing saying they need to be brought back alive. There's no rule saying we can't rape their corpses, either."

"Nice." Hawke says.

Aveline puffs up like a chicken. She raises her sword like a statue of a paragon Goddess. "Filth! You will not have us!"

"Get 'em, Boys!" The leader says.

The men rush at them. Hawke sidesteps the swipes of swords and arrows, waving her staff to set two of the men on fire. It provides light. They screech and wail, dropping to the ground. Hawke steps over them, blocking the savage swing of a rogue's blade that comes from nowhere. Her staff bends but doesn't crack. She kicks at the man violently, knocking him to the ground before falling with a knee to his chest and putting a knife through his skull. She pulls the blade back and gets to her feet. Aveline is surrounded and Hawke sees her take a blow to the face. Blood bursts from her lip.

Hawke narrows her eyes and sends a wave of ice towards the men. Five of them freeze solid in their steps and Aveline takes the opportunity to cut them down. The battle has turned in their favor. The sense of accomplishment is bright in Aveline's eyes—her eyes say that the battle is won.

Both women pause as another group of men rush toward them, coming from the left and running down the grassy hills; their swords cut through the air. Hawke sees an expert arrow fly through the night, landing solidly between the plates of Aveline's armor. The arm holding the sword falls uselessly to her side. She looks desperately to Hawke, moving backward, lifting her shield to weakly block the torrent of blows that seek to end her.

Hawke does not hesitate. She plunges the blade of the knife into her hand. Blood swirls throughout the air, splattering her. The blood of the corpses on the ground course towards her like a spider's web. It fills her, lifts her, empowers her. Her eyes glow crimson in the darkness. She can recognize the horror on Aveline's face but does not let it deter her. The men whom they had slain only moments ago rise to their feet in shambles to aid them.

The battle ends with relative ease.

* * *

Hawke leans against the outside wall of the Vallen home. She has waited for hours. Her hand is wrapped tightly with a white ribbon, a small bow at the center of her palm. The sun is beginning to rise. She only waits for news.

Minutes later Donnic opens the door. His eyes are narrowed with displeasure and his lips are shaped in a thin, firm line. "The arrow was removed," he says as if giving a report to a superior, "and she's expected to recuperate shortly." He pauses. "Anders will come later," he says almost guiltily. "She'll be back to work in no time."

"Very well." Hawke nods and goes.

"Whatever it is that you did—" Donnic starts. Hawke stops and waits but doesn't turn to look at him. "I don't like your influence, Champion. I don't like what you do for Aveline's moods. There's no question that you saved her last night. She did say that. So thank you. I don't know what I'd do if…"

Hawke leaves.

* * *

The Captain's office is arranged in a fine, efficient manner. There is nothing in the office that need not be there and it is always kept in meticulous condition. Aveline takes her position seriously. It is her pride. It is her duty and responsibility. She wants to be worthy of those that she commands. If a captain is corrupt, if a captain cannot even earn the respect of those she oversees than she is nothing and the City Guards name is worthless.

She looks over a list of patrols, as well as a detailed summary of the nobles who have been evading paying their taxes. In Lowtown some of the merchants are paying others to take care of some of their competition. At least Aveline knows that her work will never be done and she'll not be out of a job for lack of crime. Hawke enters. Aveline makes her face stern and stands straight. "You've come. Shut the door." Hawke shuts the door and goes to the desk. Within her eyes there is no guilt, no shame, no apology. It makes Aveline worry. She looks at the hand that Hawke cut into. There is no marking. Did Anders heal it for her? How long has she been working with forbidden magic? How long has she healed herself in private? Aveline feels ill with the implication. "I imagine you know why I've summoned you."

"I assume you have some business with me. What its relevance may be I cannot yet ascertain."

Aveline walks around the desk and stands close to her. Her words bristle with anger. "Blood magic? Hawke, how could you? After everything that's happened! After your mother?"

Hawke stares straight ahead at a painting of the Kirkwall landscape on the wall. She sees the slaves that mark the entrance of the city, as well as the gallows. She focuses on that prison. "I don't need a lecture, Aveline. Not all blood mages are corrupt. Look at Merrill."

"Yes, Merrill. Her blood magic got her entire clan killed." Aveline follows Hawke's gaze but doesn't see the reason for her attention. She looks back at her. "You've often spoken of what a fool she is. You should know better! You of all people! How can I trust you now?"

The question hangs in the air and Aveline is impatient, wanting answers. She wants to force Hawke to look at her, if only she could beat the answers out of her. No. That's not her way. Especially not with Hawke.

Hawke's gaze is chill but no icier than the small smile on her lips. "Do I frighten you?"

Aveline goes numb. This is not Hawke. This is not the woman she's known. No, she reasons. This is how she's always spoken, how she's always behaved. But knowing now that she tampers with blood magic… all opinions may need reevaluation. Does Hawke frighten her? "Sometimes, _yes. _Lately, _yes._" She takes hold of Hawke's arm tentatively._ "_You're losing your way."

Hawke pulls her arm away with a firm tug. "Then stay out of it."

"Talk to me!"

"What's the point? Should we have died to prove our worth? I appropriated the necessary means to win a battle which was lost the moment you let your guard down."

Aveline ignores the insult. "Don't take me for a fool! You expect me to believe that was the first blood spell you'd ever cast? I saw the mastery with which you wielded it." She moves away and faces the desk, resting her hands on it, shaking her head. "You've grown more powerful than I'd ever thought." She's grown more powerful than all the templars and city guard feared she would. "More powerful than we ever wanted."

"Next time I'll leave you to die."

Aveline rounds on her sharply. "Don't pretend as if you've done this for me! I would rather die than have you give yourself to that blasted magic! Does Anders know about this?"

"Hypocrite. Invoking his name when you think of him as a dangerous zealot? His opinions and my own are not the same." Hawke stares back at Aveline with controlled defiance. Aveline's frustration is evident. "You've grown tired of me Aveline. I'll go and leave you in peace." She goes to the door and stares at it. "One more thing—if you persist in continuing to have your guards follow me to snitch on my every activity—don't be surprised if they don't return."

Aveline's breath is plucked from her lungs. She goes hard and tense and stares at Hawke's back. Her words are rigid. "You don't mean that."

"Will you wager your guards lives to test me? On a hunch?"

Aveline marches to her and violently turns her around. Hawke's back hits the wall and still the insufferable woman doesn't react. "What's gotten into you? You reveal that you're a maleficarum and start threatening my guards? How do you expect me to react to all of this? You know that I only like to know that you're safe and what you're up to."

"Then ask me."

Aveline slams a hand into the door beside Hawke's head. "I've asked you, Hawke. I've asked for years and for years you've given the same, evasive responses. You have so much anger bottled up inside of you. You never let it out and I fear for the world what will happen if you lose control. Stop shutting me out. You know how much you mean to me."

Hawke drops her eyes. They shift to the side and then back to Aveline's. "Don't say those things." Her hand fumbles and finds the doorknob. "You're standing much too close." She ducks from under Aveline's arms and yanks the door open, forcing Aveline back.

Aveline doesn't call out to her. She looks at the guards who try desperately to look as if they hadn't overheard the tail end of the conversation. Donnic stands straighter and nods at her. "As you were." Aveline tells them all.

* * *

"I know what you've done." Anders tells Hawke. "I see that you've done it. Why, Hawke? Why willingly give yourself to such madness? You know my experiences. You know Merrill's." Hawke pushes a book back into the bookshelf, having half-pulled it out to look at its title. Anders stands at the top of the stairs in the side room. They have made love here before but neither one of them is in the mood for it currently. "You should have told me."

"The way you've told me about what you've done in the chantry?" She goes to the steps beside him, a hand on the banister. "Or perhaps you mean to teach me about self-control? When you aren't killing innocent mages."

Anders grits his jaw. "Why do you continue to torment me so? What I've done I've done for all of our kind. You should understand that." He scoffs. "You always let Aveline sidetrack you from what's really important. Don't you see that she could never understand? That she could never fully care about our plight?"

"Maybe that's true." Hawke says dully.

"I just worry." He takes her shoulders. "I thought you were smarter than us. I thought you would learn from our mistakes. What Merrill and I have done—it can't be undone. But this, Hawke, you can turn back from it. You may have contacted a demon but you can close yourself to him and never…"

"Why is this so important to you?"

"I happen to love you. Is that so surprising? Have you forgotten it every other time I've said it?" Anders peers at her face. Hawke gazes at nothing in particular on the first floor. "You've never said it to me," he says more quietly. Hawke doesn't respond. He's used to this and continues speaking. "Why did you do this? When did you start? After your Mother?"

"If I've learned anything throughout this, Anders, it's that I haven't been strong enough. I've lost those most important to me. Perhaps if I'd been stronger they'd still be here. It's hard to stay idealistic after you've lost everything." She looks at him. He shakes his head disapprovingly. "I will do what it takes to stay alive. I will do what it takes to beat every bastard at their own game."

"You fool, Hawke." Anders takes a seat on the step. Hawke remains standing. "Whatever demon feeds on you will have quite the feast. Your pride… is a thing of wonder." He looks up at her. "When I offered Justice my body, I thought I was doing the right thing. He was a good spirit. But I ruined him. I'm not half as strong as you are. Justice and I—we're one and the same now. I'm his puppet. He comes out and I don't remember. Sometimes I wake with you in my arms and I don't know…" He brings a hand to his forehead. "It's all very tiring. Sometimes I think if the world weren't so cruel none of this would have ever happened. All I've ever wanted is equality. All I've ever wanted is for us to be treated with the same dignity we deserve. Why is that so hard?"

"Because we're the very monsters they think we are. Because they force us to become monsters. I will not live on my knees to cater to their fear and arrogance."

Anders laughs. "Careful. You're starting to sound like me."

* * *

The explosion has left their ears ringing. Bricks and mortar strike at the earth like a meteor shower. Countless innocents and the Grand Cleric Elthina are dead. Plumes of smoke circle the air like vipers. Everywhere there is screaming.

Anders has taken responsibility. He is willfully unapologetic.

Everyone watches Hawke, ready for her to make a decision. Time is wasting. There are many more important issues at hand. There are worthier lives left to save. Hawke stands behind Anders, covering his eyes with her fingers. He knows it's coming. He says some words. Hawke whispers into his ear. The next instant she tears his throat open with a knife. Blood spills over her hands like a waterfall. Anders slumps forward. She lets him go.

She ignores their faces, compassionate and enflamed, making them into unidentifiable mosaic. She sheathes her knife and is already walking away, moving further into the havoc. "Let's go."

* * *

It's raining outside. Hawke is grateful. It will put out some of the fires in the city that still rage. Perhaps some part of the city will be salvageable. She feels the cold of the window on her arm that she rests upon it. Hawke withdraws it and stares out. The drops of rain pelt against the window making a blur of the world outside. It reminds her of the fade.

The fireplace on the first floor has died and the estate is colder than it should be. Hawke doesn't care to light it. It's appropriate that she should be discomfited. What has she won? There is no cause for celebration.

Hawke turns from the window and is faced with Aveline. The women only exchanged a few words before the battle with Knight-Commander Meredith. Hawke had wanted to keep it short and not focus overly on Aveline. The battle was the most pressing thing. Her companions were full of melodramatic farewells. Despite that, Hawke is fond of them. Some more than others. "Aveline." She bows her head to the woman.

"Hawke." Aveline looks uncomfortable.

"You've come to check up on me." Hawke leaves the window and returns to her bedroom where the fireplace still dances and crackles. "You'll have to let go of that bad habit."

"I can't send anyone else when you've threatened my guards." Aveline reluctantly follows her into the room. The bed is perfectly made. The materials on Hawke's desk have been cleared away. There are some that would think the room is uninhabited. "The city is in ruins. The guards and citizens will be clearing bodies away for days. I only just now stopped and I was in the area. How are you doing?" She allows a moment. "I'm sorry about Anders."

"You aren't."

Aveline doesn't respond right away. "With what's happened with him and Merrill have you reconsidered? He lost to a spirit. Which by all accounts, according to you apostates, are beneficial and good. You, on the other hand, have made a bargain with a demon."

Hawke keeps her back to Aveline. "I'm not going to discuss this with you."

"Of course not." Aveline moves closer. "I wanted to tell you… that I'm proud of you."

"Is that what you were doing?"

"Damn it, Hawke. Don't make this any harder than it has to be. I've come here to eat crow, just give me the opportunity. And do look at me." Aveline says commandingly. Hawke looks at her. "I haven't always agreed with your methods. I think you're ruthless, arrogant and sometimes too unfeeling—" She takes a breath. "Let me start over. We won today. We won because of you." Hawke frowns. "What? I thought it would please you. I didn't know there was any way of misinterpreting that sentence."

"It's fine."

"'Fine'? I suppose I shouldn't expect any thanks for offering congratulations. That's not the point of them, is it?" Aveline looks at the fireplace and back at Hawke. "Can I ask one thing? How have you controlled yourself so far? You see about as much injustice as anyone else. You've far more reason to be angry than Anders and Merrill. Don't make me eat these words, Hawke—but how do you do it?" Hawke goes to the fireplace. Aveline curses that she still won't face her. Is she ashamed?

"I'm stronger than others but I'm not infallible. No person is." She waits and then turns to Aveline. "The truth is that I never needed a spirit of Justice to know wrong from right. From the moment I met you, when I was fleeing Lothering with my family I've had you to guide me. You're the most just person I know. No matter my methods… No matter the means, as long as the end result was in line with what you'd find… right… then I will remain satisfied."

Aveline's throat is tight. Hawke's eyes manage to both pierce and go right through her. Aveline looks around as if some object in the room will allow her to regain her composure or give her the necessary words. Those words, so sincerely spoken—are they the truth? The Hawke she's known throughout the years—has that all been bravado? Or is this just another facet of her truth? "Having faith in me is not enough."

"It's enough for your men. It's enough for Donnic."

Aveline notices that Hawke always says Donnic's name in the same, certain way. "It isn't enough for you. Not for this. Not for battle against a demon."

"I've taken down my share of demons. I decide what's enough, Aveline. I and I alone."

"If you care about me you'll give it up."

Hawke sneers. "You don't have the right to make demands of me."

"So you'll follow my line of justice as long as it's convenient for you? How very conditional."

"Don't speak to me about conditional, Aveline." Hawke says fiercely stepping forward, a fist cocked.

Aveline watches the anger in Hawke's eyes blaze uncontrollably, the flames of the fireplace make the room glow and pulse, throbbing as if with the life force of Hawke's blood. Aveline's fingers close carefully around Hawke's fist. The heat of Hawke's eyes dampens until it's a slow smolder. The roar of the fireplace is quietly smothered. "It's strange." Aveline says. "As captain of the guard it's my duty to be aware of every detail. I'm damned good at my job. I miss nothing. But I missed this. Can you blame me? You had Anders and Fenris around, Merrill and Isabela. They're the type of men and women that really make a person take notice. My nickname is Man Hands. I've got this awful ginger hair, these damnable freckles and a square jaw. Certainly I'm not used to gaining the affection of anyone. Not the affection of my oldest friend and champion of Kirkwall." Hawke takes deep, laborious breaths. Aveline touches her face. Hawke's curled hand unfurls and comes back to her side. "You're the kind of woman people tend to fall for. Beautiful, strong, mysterious, efficient to a frightening degree and somewhere, beneath all that ice, there's a kind soul, a moral code. If there weren't you wouldn't have gotten to where you have. You wouldn't be the people's Champion." Aveline pulls the headband from her forehead. A curtain of red hair spills loose, soft and hot, a contrast to the indifferent pale steel that circles her frame. "So here I am, Hawke. For tonight. Your hard won, but deserved, prize." Aveline waivers under Hawke's direct gaze. She is unsettled by her silence. She feels stupid. "You've let me go on for so long like a fool. Don't you have anything to say?"

"Yes. You're married."

Aveline flinches. "I know that."

"Do you? You'll betray the man you've loved for over a decade for what? A pity fuck? Keep your favors, Aveline. Keep your dignity." Hawke catches Aveline's hand as it's coming to slap her. She throws it back at Aveline's side and takes a menacing step forward.

"That isn't what it would be," Aveline says through gritted teeth. "Curse you, Hawke. Don't make me say anything more." Aveline glowers at her. The woman brings her face close to Aveline's. Aveline tries to make sense of the dark expression on Hawke's face and finds it useless. How is she so unable to read her after all these years? "Don't make me say what you've always been too cowardly to say."

Hawke clenches her jaw. She settles a hand on the breastplate of Aveline's armor. Aveline feels the small action like an electrifying jolt. She meets Hawke's mouth, both unbearably hot and cold. It sears her and quenches her. Aveline is nervous. She doesn't tell Hawke that she's never been with a woman. It should be fairly obvious, she assumes. What a strange thing to fell control to another, to another woman, to an apostate maleficar, to her oldest friend, to Hawke: Champion of Kirkwall.

The night is a long one. They make both silent and spoken promises to each other, to themselves, all of which will be broken.


	2. The Viscount

A/N: Ah, here's my 'short' follow up to this story. This is a _massive _chapter. If you get through it, you should get a prize. I thought about uploading this in pieces but I know me, if I do that I'll forget to update. This chapter is up to interpretation. Choose your own adventure! (outcome). Thanks again for the reviews, everyone. And to the Allusive Man for edits.

Also, I guess I'm going to follow this up with random scenes that come during mostly act 2 and midway between act 2 and 3. Those will be up at some point or another.

* * *

Hawke kneels before the throne and the people. Pale sunlight washes over the Keep throne room. The carpet runs down the stairs like a river of blood left behind by Viscount Dumar and the qunari. Knight-Captain Cullen stands to the right, anointing Hawke, the flat of his blade pressing to one shoulder and then the next.

It is Guard Captain Aveline Vallen Hendyr that places the cold, jagged iron throne on Hawke's head. Her fingers tremble and as a result the edges of the crown dig deep, drawing blood. Hawke's face is stony but accomplished. The nobles cheer below. The few remaining friends Hawke has, watch. Donnic's eyes never leave Hawke's. His hand remains clamped around the hilt of his sword.

Hawke's returns his gaze frosty and defiant. She stands and all in attendance fall to their knees. Hawke claims her seat on the throne. Viscount Marian Hawke. Champion of Kirkwall. Blood Mage.

* * *

It's still dark.

Aveline finds tangled sheets beside her. She sits up, surrendering the hour of sleep she might have gotten had she found Donnic beside her. She stands. The baggy nightshirt she wears is not enough for the chill of the early hour. Donnic is in the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets. Aveline always wakes before him. He's shirtless, wearing loose slacks that ride low along his hips. He is a tall man with muscle nestled firmly beneath his skin. He has gained some weight since their marriage, 'love pounds' he calls them. He is still fit. His performance wants for nothing.

"It's early, love." She stands beside him, a hand to his back. "I never thought I'd see the day when you woke before I did." He moves away from her touch and lifts three eggs in his hand. "You want breakfast?"

"This is for you." Donnic casts a look around the kitchen before taking a heavy iron pan from a hook and bringing it to the woodstove. "Another long day in the Keep and the city with this new 'Viscount'. It makes me wonder if being in the guard is still what I want to do." He finds a cup of grease beside the sink and coats the pan in it. "Is it still what you want to do?"

Aveline doesn't know how to respond. The question has come from nowhere. "It's all I've ever wanted. You know that." Donnic narrows his thick eyebrows in response. "What's this about?"

Donnic moves to crack one of the brown eggs over the side of the pan but stops, turning to look at her curiously. His stubble has grown full in and he's in need of a shave. "Things are…different since the new 'Viscount' was appointed. If it could even be called that, she went right ahead and took it, didn't she? She's a bit of a bully in that way. Use enough force and eventually she gets what she wants." He shakes his head. The morning feels colder still. "To be honest, sweetheart, I thought the two of you had a row." He stares at Aveline who stares back, dumbfounded. "It's just that you always speak of her and you haven't recently. You haven't seen her either, have you?" Aveline shakes her head. The last she saw her was at the Keep. During the ceremony. "But you've been…distracted. I know I have a lot to say when you do make mention of her," he sets the eggs down, "but it's only because I care for you. I know how you care for her but so does she. She'll twist it and use it to get what she wants."

"I really don't know where any of this has come from," she says distractedly, pushing him aside and taking a hold of one of the eggs. It cracks in her hand. She swears inwardly, damning her nerves and her guilt and her clear inability to hide anything from her husband. She makes it a point to pick some eggs up at the market. "Hawke and I are not in a row."

"I don't like the way she looks at me."

She trashes the egg, finds a cloth to wipe her hand. Aveline tries to not think of the way that Hawke has looked at her when she has dropped her many walls of ice. "How does she look at you?"

He falters. He's embarrassed at saying it aloud, whatever it is. Suddenly, Aveline is frightened. Donnic is a brave man and Hawke is… can be… unsettling. "As if she wishes that I were out of the way."

Aveline takes a breath, doubts somewhat alleviated. "She looks at everyone that way."

* * *

Seneschal Bran has a laundry list of items that need attending to, all of which he claims are of 'dire consequence'. Hawke listens to him drone on in that self-important way that he does, only half-listening. The Chantry of Kirkwall is no more. The Templars have no Knight-Commander. Cullen will want the position. He is not a terrible man but he is a Templar and as such, suspect. The Templar Order will answer to her. The City Guard will answer to her. She lost everything to Kirkwall, lost everything to protect it. It's her city now. She will rule it as she sees fit.

Bran clears his throat loudly. Hawke looks at him. He stands straighter. "There is the matter of the few mages left in the Gallows. The City Guard is petitioning for their deaths. The Templars would like for them to be made tranquil. Viscount Dumar was always…receptive to the Templars wishes."

"You mean Knight-Commander Meredith's demands." The bitch is dead. She ruled Kirkwall for decades unchallenged. Marlowe didn't have the spine to stand up to her. Kirkwall is filled to the brim with people clamoring with demands but with no initiative to make their own way. Leeches, the lot of them. Hawke rises, the crown steady on her head. "Kirkwall is in for some changes. I'm no pushover like your dead Dumar." The Circle has been annulled. The Templar Order has little purpose in Kirkwall. She will usher them out of her city but not immediately. It must be done gradually.

Bran looks at her anxiously, wiping the sweat from his brow. Hawke cocks her head to study him. He has always been a pompous and fretful man, even throughout the years when he worked for a spineless 'ruler'. Hawke remembers when Bran didn't think her fit for licking his boots. Now he grows nervous at speaking with her. "Spit it out."

"You're the Champion of Kirkwall. The Viscount, yes, it's true. However—there are those… templars… and whispers of some in the city guard who are…" Bran stammers as Hawke narrows her eyes on him, stepping closer. "Cautious… of …apostates." He flinches as her jaw hardens. "Normally for… delicate situations like this we'd get someone like… well. Like you. However… going after those who question you may very well prove their point. You do not want to appear too aggressive."

The Templars aren't a surprise. They bowed to her when she defeated Meredith but they were only grateful to be rid of a tyrant. The Knight-Commander was always quick to turn on her after any little errand had been completed. "Whom do the whispers speak of?" she asks softly. Bran fidgets. "I want names."

"None are forthcoming. You know how those guard types are, always watching over each other, protecting one another. I've pressed."

"Press _harder_."

"With all due respect, you're the one with the reputation and the talent for …pressing." He pulls at his collar. Her fingers curl delicately. Fresh sweat springs to Bran's brow. "If I may offer a suggestion… you could always speak to that mannish captain of the guard. Aveline Hendry has some influence over her men. Perhaps if you get on her good side—"

Hawke moves to the window and controls her breathing. Her mood has soured considerably but her voice is even. "You're dismissed, Bran." She waits until he shuts the door and stares out the window. Kirkwall is bathed in sunlight. From a Fereldan refugee to the Champion and then to the Viscount of Kirkwall and still she is questioned, still she is not trusted.

She never loved Anders. She'd felt fondness for him and a mild sense of camaraderie. She was lonely with him and is puzzled to find that she is lonelier without. He was a good man in some ways. Would Aveline have come to her that night if Anders hadn't blown up the chantry? If Hawke hadn't sliced his throat open?

They've only seen each other in public since that night, their exchanges limited to nods. Sometimes they walk past one another without a word.

Aveline's fingers shook the day she placed the crown on her head. The night Kirkwall burned, every part of Aveline had trembled. It was strange to hear her embarrassed apologies. Her pale skin flushed to the touch. Hawke tried to hold her steady. She may have whispered assurances.

It was supposed to get Aveline out of her system. She was meant to be free of her. Instead, Aveline has filled her like a cancer with no remedy in sight.

A blight on Donnic.

Hawke remembers Wesley, twisting the knife into his heart until he went silent. He thanked her. She goes cold with guilt.

* * *

"I once knew an Amell. In the Ferelden Circle." Cullen paces the Viscount's office. The revelation is news to Aveline who scarcely remembered that Cullen used to serve in Ferelden. It's been so many years. Hawke does not react to the revelation. Perhaps she knew all along. She has always been a woman to take things in stride. "Solona. I had… a weakness for her. I was very young." Hawke's smile is faintly condescending. "She was your…"

"Cousin." Hawke says curtly. Her eyes and tone reveal no emotional connection to her. She sits on the ornate desk chair, hands folded in front of her as if biding her time. "Were you there the day she died?"

Cullen nods. "What happened in that Circle haunts me still. Blood mages and demons, Maker, so many of them, infested the Circle." Aveline tenses. It appears that she and Cullen are the only ones to do so. "At the time I argued for the annulment of the Circle. The Warden, Cousland, wouldn't allow it." He takes a deep breath. Cullen looks like a man who has his own share of demons tormenting him. He is rough around the edges, still wearing Templar armor that has a red sheen to it. How long must you be soaked in blood for it to stain? How many mages did they cut down that day? "The Warden was soft. You have not been."

"What is it that you're asking for?" Hawke asks. "Bran tells me that you're here to petition for two different means of execution." Cullen stops spacing. Aveline, leaning into the doorway, crosses her arms gently. "What are these mages crimes? I assume that you have all the proper documentation detailing their alleged crimes?"

"Alleged?" Cullen plants his hands on the desk to look at her. "There's nothing 'alleged' about it. These mages are criminals. If they were imprisoned they were imprisoned for good reason."

"Knight-Commander Meredith wanted me drawn and quartered simply for _being_. We all know the abuse that ran rampant and unchecked in the Gallows." She mirrors his stance. "Not everyone is the handsome, gallant prince that you are." Aveline stiffens. "The Circle is no more. Just as it is no more in many other cities across Thedas. There is no Chantry here. The days of the Templars are over. Release the mages."

"What?" Aveline pushes away from the door, her complaint uttered at the same time as Cullen's. "You can't be serious." She hates Hawke's faint smiles at the worst possible times. Why is she so bloody arrogant? "Imprisoned mages cannot be allowed to roam the city freely."

"Imprisoned mages won't. Free mages will."

"You know bloody well what I mean, Hawke." She pushes to the front of the office, now side by side by Cullen. For a moment she feels guilty. The Knight-Captain of the Templar Order and the Captain of the Guard are standing together against the new Viscount. Neither of them dared to stand against Marlowe Dumar, nor stand alongside of one another and here they are united against their new apostate ruler. Aveline wonders if she'd feel differently if she didn't know that Hawke was a blood mage. Her magic has always unsettled Aveline. It's too much power. Blood magic is another monster altogether. Maybe she only resents her for what they've shared, for her role in the deception of Donnic. "You've done much for Kirkwall. Don't forget that it is your responsibility to put the people and its safety first."

"You ask me to execute men and women whose crimes are not documented? Is that the direction you want Kirkwall to take?" Hawke sneers. "Is this how you've been running the City Guard? How many innocents have you imprisoned and killed? I hope your work has not always been so sloppy. I have heard throughout the years that the guard was not fair, that they were cruel and eager to overexert their power. I doubted it. I thought the corruption ended with Jeven. Was I a fool?" They stare heatedly at one another until Aveline moves away from the desk, needing to hold her tongue. She has pummeled Hawke before in the Captain's quarters. She won't do so again in front of Cullen.

"A decision must be made," Cullen looks between the two women. "They are in their cells still. With everything that's happened… some of the Templars have left. The Order is falling apart. It needs to come together, it needs a purpose."

Hawke glowers at him. "And you intend for the tranquilization of these mages to serve as what…? Your purpose? Your glue?" Her lip curls. Aveline does not know that she's ever seen her so angry though her voice remains steady, her fingers still flat across the desk. "Being made Tranquil is a fate worse than death." Aveline nods though the look Hawke shoots in her direction is enough to still her. "But a warrantless execution is no better. _I_ will decide the fates of these mages. I will alert you both to the date and time. Perhaps we'll make it a public gathering for all the animals of Kirkwall to see," she says with a small smile. "They love their public executions, don't they?"

Cullen's voice is tight. "That isn't necessary."

"I decide what's necessary." Hawke says sharply. She trails her fingers along the desk and stands tall. Dressed in the golden light of the sun she looks regal. But there's something in her that reminds her of Meredith Stannard. Aveline shivers. "We're finished here. Both of you get out." Cullen looks to protest. "_Leave_." Cullen exits, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Aveline lingers at the exit but pushes the door closed instead. She stares at it, not sure that speaking to her in private quarters is a wise idea. "I said we're finished."

"I know what you said but I'm not leaving." Aveline turns. She doesn't know how to interact with the woman any longer. With Cullen, on official business, it was simple enough. Now they are alone and Aveline is left feeling awkward. Hawke has known her for years, been there for the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. What spectrum does their night together fall under? Hawke was so different then. After the indignation faltered, after her rage subsided, she had looked happy. She had been… lovely. Aveline decides it's best to keep the conversation as professional as possible. That would be the safest thing. "Hawke, I know how you feel—"

"You haven't the faintest idea of how I feel—"

"But you _must_ watch your tone. You may be the Viscount but viscounts have been murdered and overthrown before."

"By a Knight-Commander that has since been disposed of."

Aveline bites her tongue. Hawke is a strange phenomenon: icy, yet explosive. She's impossible to sort out. "You know the history of this city. You may be the Champion and the Viscount but you have seen how easily people turn against those they claim to love."

"Yes. I have."

Aveline swallows the lump in her throat, tries to still the flips in her stomach, to subdue the nausea rearing its head. "The Magisters used to rule this city. They used their 'gifts' to enslave the masses. The Circle may be gone but the Templars aren't. People are frightened still after what happened. The mages went mad, killing Templars and civilians alike when they revolted. You did the right thing then. It was difficult. It must have been… with Anders and with… well… with what you are. But you did it. You've made a lot of progress. Don't throw it away on pride or to prove a point. The last thing Kirkwall needs is a frightened mob, raising their hayforks—"

"As if Kirkwall has ever lifted a finger—"

"And torches to come after you here. You _know_ the bloody history of this city. If they came after you—"

"They'd be fools to try—"

"Even _I_ could not keep you safe." Aveline forces the words, making them louder, forcing Hawke to hear her. Hawke has always had that way about her, refusing to listen to anything that doesn't align with her vision. "Kirkwall is our home but it is an unforgiving city. Don't give them reason to turn against you."

"It may be too late for that." Hawke turns her head. She is silhouetted in light, the crown like a shadow on her head. She looks directly at her. Aveline holds her breath. "If the city were to turn against me where do you imagine the rebellion would begin?" Aveline waits. She knows when Hawke is leading to something and is accustomed to disliking their final destination. "Your city guards do not trust me." At least, Aveline thinks grimly, the journey is always swift. "I have heard tales."

Aveline narrows her eyes. "From who?"

"Irrelevant. I want names."

"For what purpose?" Aveline asks. Hawke only looks at her. Aveline shakes her head. "What is the meaning of this? You want names for what? To go on a witch hunt?"

Hawke's eyes are dark but her smile is sinister, mocking, scathing. "Afraid I'd be depriving you and your Templars of your usual escapades?" Aveline's nose flares. "I am the Viscount and you will bloody give me the names of those who stand against me—"

"Stand against you? That's preposterous—"

"Are you not the guard captain? Is it not your duty to ensure my safety? I saw how you lifted your sword and shield for Marlowe Dumar, the source of many of Kirkwall's calamities. You asked me to do the same and I did so for your sake. I saved this city over and over again! Yet, here I stand before you only asking for you to do your duty—"

"You ask too much—"

"And you appear incapable of doing it!" Hawke shouts. Aveline breathes much too quickly. She has never seen Hawke's temper flare like this. It's terrifying. She has made points that Aveline, in good conscience, cannot pretend to be ignorant to. "Am I not worth your bloody oath, Aveline?"

And suddenly, Hawke seems tired. She steps away from Aveline, sitting back on the edge of the desk, shoulders slumped, out of breath. Aveline looks around uncertainly, tries to draw strength from somewhere, anywhere. Hawke has the will to sap it from her. Literally, figuratively. "I will not turn against the men and women of the guard because they are frightened. Do you blame them? If I gave you their names, what would you do? Make examples?" Her voice shakes. "I can't let you. I won't let you. They're my family. You've threatened my men before for following my direction. You're…rash."

Hawke brings a hand to her mouth. She looks contemplative or as if she were biting back a spell. Aveline isn't sure which. "If you will not do your duty I may have to find someone who can."

Aveline's heart sinks. She watches her move around the desk, sit, hang her head, put her hands in her hair. Against all reason, Aveline wants to go to her, say something, touch her hair, maybe. "Will you?"

"You know what they say about your friends and your enemies." Hawke says. Aveline supposes the answer should please her. It may hurt her but she has bore difficult pain before. "Don't forget," Hawke adds lightly, "I don't need anyone's permission to get answers."

A cold rage settles over her. Hawke is taunting her now. She wants her to stay and fight. She won't do it. Nor will Hawke. Aveline leaves. She takes extra care to not slam the door. She will not give Hawke a reaction. That's what she wants, blast her. She will not get it. Aveline curses her foolish decisions, her tangled emotions.

* * *

"Are you all right, Hawke?" Merrill rushes to her, bright green eyes wider than usual. Merrill has always been a bumbling thing with a penchant for the dramatic. Hawke wonders whether it's her Dalish roots or paranoia over blood magic that makes her overreact to just about everything. "I saw the…"

Hawke follows her gaze to the spindleweed in the Keep's garden. The spindleweed has grown considerably since Hawke took partial residence, its vines curling and extending like a rope trap along the ground. It grows best for those who are sorrowful, they say. "It's fine," Hawke says. "Don't tell me you buy into that old wives tale."

"I've heard everybody say that sort of thing, not just old wives," Merrill frets, finger gingerly scratching her forehead before looking back at her. "I meant to come see you. I could have _sworn_ I had it right this time but I wound up here. I don't want to keep carrying that ball of yarn around forever and…" she stops. "Anyway, how have you been? It's been so long and you must be terribly busy." She bites her lip, considers. She stoops on her haunches, fingers trailing over the spindleweed as if to comfort it. "I'm so glad that you're the Viscount now."

Hawke takes the words in for a moment. She smiles wryly. "I think you may be the only one."

"Oh, that's not true. Varric's happy…I think." Merrill mulls it over. Hawke and Varric have never been close. He finds her too severe and she thinks him too pleased with himself. "And… well, Isabela is just trying to get out of here now that she has her ship back. She may try to take a few things from the Keep. It's a fantasy of hers. Don't be too hard on her if you catch her." Merrill looks back to her for assurance. Hawke nods. "I think Fenris is going to go with her. He says he doesn't like what's happening to the city. But he's always been that way, you know. In many ways people never change. Dalish and shemlens aren't very different. I don't know why it took me so long to understand."

"Most people are the same beneath it all."

"Is that true?" Merrill's back looks thoughtful, her voice disheartened. "Aveline must be happy to have someone she trusts in the Keep." Merrill stands. The woman is capable of astounding clumsiness and remarkable grace. Today she moves like water, eyes briefly pinning her. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asks softly. Hawke takes a step back. "There's something different about you lately… different but… familiar." Her cheeks redden. Merrill has always flustered easily. "Listen to me going on again."

Hawke looks at Merrill's bare feet. How can they stand to walk the city? It must bother her. Hawke pulls the crown from her head, running her fingers through her hair absently. "I'm happy to hear you. Better you than Bran." Merrill giggles. Hawke smiles faintly, outstretching her hand to set the crown on Merrill's head, a tease. Merrill recoils, looking around wildly. Hawke's embarrassed and she doesn't know why.

"You mustn't do that," she whispers. "If someone saw… if anyone suspected me. If Aveline saw…" she squirms. "You know how serious she can be about… well. People like me."

"You're a good person."

"I got my clan killed."

"They never let you _try_. They doubted you from the start, Merrill. They never trusted you to be capable. They always assumed they knew better than you. Marethari's death was her own bloody fault." Hawke hadn't always felt that way. The feelings surfaced after they cleansed Sundermount of the enraged Dalish. Merrill's face is conflicted with anger and appreciation.

"I don't know," Merrill says. "I don't know anymore."

"I do."

Merrill looks at her, shifts, averts her eyes. Merrill has had a soft spot for her since their first meeting. Hawke never reciprocated the feelings. She's like a younger sister. Maybe time has twisted her memory of Bethany. Bethany would never dabble with blood magic. The thought would disgust her. Hawke's face heats, thinking of Bethany's reprimand from beyond the grave. But if Hawke had been stronger, more knowledgeable before the world stole everything from her—then maybe Bethany might still be alive. "Are things all right with you and Aveline?" Merrill asks. Hawke is immediately on alert. "It's just that…" she looks at the ground. "A few months ago she stormed into my home and yelled. About… well, a lot of things. My bad influence, mostly," she says quietly. "She made it seem like… she made it sound like…"

Hawke takes a slow breath and settles the crown firmly back on her head. She has never told Merrill about her own foray into blood magic. She's gone to her home and read with her, taken countless of tomes from her home, from the reaches of Thedas, from the caves filled with demons. She has made a bargain. Still, she likes to think that Merrill is more innocent than she is. After all, Merrill wanted to save her clan. Hawke took up the dark arts after the fact. And if she hadn't? Aveline may well be dead. Lost to idiot thugs at the Wounded Coast. Whatever bargain she made, whatever trade was established, it is worth it. "Does the city-guard ever give you trouble?"

"No. No, I don't think so. No more so than any other elf," her reassuring smile is more of a grimace. "Aveline wouldn't let them anyway. We fight but… she always does the right thing. It's just that… we don't always agree on what the right thing is." She looks at Hawke. "Don't you run the city-guard now?"

"I do. They just haven't realized it yet."

* * *

Making love to Donnic does not prove enough to settle her nerves. Lately she feels distant from Donnic (a distance created entirely of her own errant behavior and guilt, she is well-aware) and she reaches out to him in the middle of the night, kissing him to alertness. She loves her husband, his body, his manner of caring, the strength of his arms around her. It used to be enough to put her mind at ease.

She tries a warm bath, warm milk, counting Isabela's many crimes but nothing helps. She rises and cleans. She cleans the bath, the tile floors on hands and knees, the walls, the sink and all its grooves, the corners of the rooms were spiders beg to nest. She is thorough, glazed in a cold sweat by the time she's finished. The home is spotless. Now she is left to her thoughts. She thinks of Hawke. It has become more of a challenge not to. Thinking of the woman around Donnic is asking for trouble. He can always read Hawke in her expression, a notion that has begun to frighten her.

She and Hawke have had many arguments in their day. They were always better adapted to that than getting along. Perhaps she shouldn't be surprised. Aveline met Hawke when she and her family were literally fighting to survive. From outrunning the Blight to arriving in Kirkwall, every obstacle thrown at Hawke has tested her will to live. Maker knows how many others would have ended matters at their own hand if they'd been dealt half the cards Hawke has.

Aveline doesn't want to understand why Hawke turned to blood magic. She should have known better: Quentin, Orsino, Merrill, Idunna, Danarius, Tarohne, the list goes on and on. Blood mages are scary enough and typically they are not half as intelligent as Hawke is. She is a shrewd woman. Having her as an adversary is…unpleasant.

She has read some on the subject. Blood magic is useful. However, all remarkable things blood mages have accomplished has been at the expense of innocent lives. Hawke has never injured an innocent, that Aveline is aware of, but how long until she does? How long before blood magic becomes not a means of survival but a thirst for power? She is the Viscount now. She stands at the pinnacle of power. What more could she want it for? What use has she for it?

Aveline hates it when they fight. Hawke has a way of getting under her skin. She'll try to talk to her again. She failed miserably before but that was before… what happened, happened. Maybe it's different now. Maybe Hawke will see reason.

* * *

The Gallows remain a smoky, charred section of the city. The stone is tinged red from the slaughter that resulted from the annulment of the Circle. It's colder here than elsewhere in the city. Knight-Captain Cullen stands so close she can feel his breath on her neck. She shifts her head, meeting his eyes. "Do you have a weakness for apostates still, Knight-Captain?" The question offends. He stiffens. "Or perhaps you are drawn to political clout?" Now his brown eyes narrow on her. "Why do you stand so closely?" she demands. "Do you fear I have plans to escape into the Free Marches?"

"That's—" he clenches his jaw. There are some Templars in the distance, helmet free, looking ragged. How long since they've had their daily dose of lyrium? Some of the tunnels have collapsed. Dwarves, no longer finding a viable trade have moved on. "Do not antagonize me, Hawke."

"It's _Viscount_ Hawke. Or am I not allowed the same respect previously held by feeble old men incapable of action? Perhaps you just don't like women?" She asks softly. His face, in the darkness, reddens. From anger, embarrassment, she isn't sure. Maybe both. She doesn't care. Her temperament is no longer so steady as that of a winter lake. Beneath the surface she is becoming restless.

"My apologies… _Viscount_…. They're right this way," Cullen says pushing on ahead.

Hawke follows him deeper into the darkness. There is a foul smell to the air. Rot, piss, mold. They pass by the statues of the slaves. These were once meant to intimidate non-mages but for the past ages the Chantry and the Templars have used it to beat down the spirits of their charges. Hawke hears the metal clink of the Templars in lyrium withdrawal creeping up behind her. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end. How easy would it be for them to take her unawares? Grab her swiftly when she wasn't expecting it and throwing her in a cell? What would they do to her? A dozen possibilities present themselves, none pleasant. Worst than any lashing or any predictable sexual assault would be forcing tranquilization on her. How many would love that? The people of Kirkwall, perhaps? Maybe even the City-Guard? What would Aveline do? She grits her jaw. She will not depend on Aveline. She will not let her guard down.

She does not have her staff but she does have a knife strapped to her thigh. Its purpose was not meant for defense but it will do just the same. She has used it to crack the skulls of men before, to tear men open from ear to ear. She thinks of Anders' blood warming her fingers.

She is comforted with the knowledge that the Templars are no doubt weak. A dwindled stock of lyrium and low numbers will leave them fatigued and disorganized. It may have also left them paranoid and psychotic. That will give them an edge of unpredictability but if need be, she has another to overcome it.

At the end of a lengthy passage they arrive at a large wooden door, heavy enough it requires two to push it open. Inside is a cluster of cells. The flames mounted on the wall glow pale blue. The thick smell is choking. Cullen is hard, his face gaunt, eyes so shadowed they're nearly black. Hawke hears sniveling and the metal of the Templar tin men. "Wait outside." She tells him.

He shakes his head. "A dangerous proposition."

"For whom?" She bites her tongue. The man is becoming more of a nuisance by the day. She considers killing him. No doubt, he would end her as easily if he thought he could. "Do you imagine we will all congregate and conspire to overthrow you?" she smiles and looks back at the mages. "That one over there has shit on his knees. Shit. On his knees." Another look to Cullen. "Have you fed them?"

"Prisoners are allotted meals."

"I'm certain you've been on top of it. Or them, at least," she says spotting Idunna. She has aged. There is some hint of the beauty that she once had in her still but gone is 'The Exotic Wonder of the East'. Anders was furious with Hawke when she sent her to the Circle. "You've no records on any of these mages? With all the time spent at the Blooming Rose you'd think you'd pick up a few things. Aside from venereal diseases. Tips on meticulous record keeping, perhaps. Favored positions would not be necessary but from my understanding, the difference between the Blooming Rose whores and mages imprisoned in the Gallows was negligible. Consent not withstanding."

"I will _not_ allow—"

"You will not allow _what_?" Hawke asks. Cullen is pale and sweaty. Ridding the city of the Templar order may be easier than she anticipated if their strongest has already nearly fallen. However, she must be cautious. The superstitious Chantry lovers would pounce on the opportunity, declaring her a magister on the spot were the Templars to leave the city. Politics have quickly become an exhausting game. Hawke takes a step back. "It will prove simpler to find out what these mages have done—if anything—if a Templar presence is absent. They won't admit to anything if you're here. From me, an apostate, they might expect sympathy. Understanding."

"Will they get it?"

"You'll be just behind the door. You have done this city a great service. Let me do my part." She touches his arm, fingers grazing cold steel, nothing, really. But he straightens and with some reluctance exits the room. A flick of the wrist and the door shuts tightly behind him. She hears their voices raise in surprise but they're no longer of import.

Before her there are six cells. Six mages. Six criminals. Possibly six liars. Idunna is one. Feynriel is another. She's surprised to see him back in Kirkwall after all this time. What happened to Tevinter? Was he incapable of escaping his demons? Hawke tells herself she will not be the same. There is a boy, no more than seven years old. A miniature version of Carver. He even scowls the same. The others are of varying ages. All are emaciated.

Hawke takes a breath and pulls the hood over her head. None have acknowledged her presence. She doubts they're aware of it. Famine and confinement will drain a person's life, their sanity. She goes to Idunna's cell first. She sits with her head against the stone wall. Does she still follow the Maker, she wonders?

"Give me your hand." Hawke commands. Idunna's eyes are glassy. Like a puppet on a string she obeys. Hawke takes her hand and pulls it between the bars. The slash of the knife strikes faster than a snake, blood springing vibrantly to the surface like a rose in bloom.

Hawke gasps, cheeks flushing. Euphoria shoots through her veins. She sighs softly.

* * *

The stack of notices is as tall as the hilt of her sword. Aveline looks at them warily. The Templars and City-Guard have been dispatched to paper the city with the announcement.

**EXECUTION IN HIGHTOWN**

ALL SOULS DAY at sundown

Commemorate and Witness Guilty Souls Being Hastened to the Maker

Aveline picks up a notice, studying it carefully. The message is clear, the tone sardonic. The idea is unsettling. All Souls Day is a ghoulish holiday. Not only do the citizens of Kirkwall dress as departed spirits, they drink to excess and set the city afire all in some awry celebration to Andraste. Aveline does not want the headache of mobs out for blood. Hawke has ignored her presence for the past several minutes. She wears her crown. Is it important to her?

"How long will you keep me waiting?" Aveline asks, slapping the notice down on top of the others. Hawke's quill pauses on the paper she writes on but then continues as if any noise she may have heard was only imagined. "I do not like this idea. Furthermore, the guardsmen have better things to do than spread the word about… this." She picks up a notice again to wave it at her. "Executions on All Souls Day?"

"They deserve to be remembered. No more mages will be made tranquil."

"That's not your decision to make, Hawke."

"Isn't it? The Chantry is no more. The majority of the mages in this city have been executed. Many by the two of us. The Templars no longer serve a purpose." Aveline tries to shake the gutted feeling in the pit of her stomach. Hawke dips the quill in the inkwell, flicking her eyes up to her. "If Kirkwall demands an execution, it shall have it but they'll have to own up to their depravity."

"Executions are unnecessary."

"You wanted them dead, Aveline." She sets the quill down. "You've always been such a hypocrite." Hawke goes to the window, hands folded behind her. A curious image: one emulated by those in power, that of a bound prisoner. Which one is Hawke? "Mages will no longer die in obscurity. You will not simply wipe us from your memory because our deaths are morally inconvenient."

"That isn't what it is." Aveline says but the knots in her stomach only tighten. She wishes Hawke would bloody face her. "Were the records found?"

"Yes."

"Then you know who's guilty and who isn't?"

"Yes."

"Well, what were the Templars doing then?" She shakes her head. "Say what you will about Knight-Commander Meredith, at the very least she was efficient. I doubt any paperwork would have gone missing under her watch—unless it happened to be convenient for her." Hawke is feet away but feels much too far. A dagger hangs in an ornate sheathe on the belt looped around her waist. Aveline was always well aware of when Hawke had her staff on her. This matter of blood magic makes things difficult. Anything could be used as a conduit. "Which mages are guilty?"

A soft laugh. "I'd hate to spoil the surprise for you."

Aveline waits for Hawke to fill her in but she doesn't. There's no sense in prodding her. She's as stubborn as they come. If Aveline wants to see what the Templar records hold, which mages will be put to death, she will have to go to the execution. Thinking of the security detail alone is a nightmare.

Hawke is a capable woman and a strong adversary. However, she's never had the whole city watching her. How many enemies has she gained since becoming the Viscount? Aveline has already walked into guard conversations that quickly cease when she enters a room. They know of her friendship with Hawke. Their silence makes her uneasy. "I wanted to talk to you about what happened." Hawke's back straightens. "At the Wounded Coast." Some of the tension in Hawke's shoulders eases. "Have you given it up?" She expects a confirmation or denial. She gets neither and steps closer as if it is only the space between them that keeps her from hearing. "I don't understand. I won't. I see why you'd use it in a moment of desperation. I know we've fought about it."

"Yet you speak of it again."

"You don't need it anymore. Meredith is gone. The fighting is over. Don't you see that?" Aveline takes another step closer, carefully as if not wanting to alert a skittish or dangerous animal. "You have what you wanted."

Hawke faces her. "I have a crown, an ungrateful, frightened city, a Templar Order that is trying to rein me in despite my aid to them throughout the years and the City-Guard that questions me when I tell them the sky is blue. Is this what you imagine I've wanted?"

Aveline lowers her eyes, embarrassed. When she puts it that way… What has Hawke wanted? Survival, yes. And now what else? What does she do with her life? Anders is gone. Her family is gone. Isabela and Fenris have moved on. "You have me."

"I had you. For a night. We had a lousy fuck. Was it worth it, Aveline? How was it, fucking your pet apostate? Was it thrilling to dirty yourself? What would your dead Templar husband say? What would boring, dependable Donnic think?"

Aveline grabs Hawke by the cloth of her cloak and slams her into a wall before she's finished talking. She feels as if she's been doused by ice water. She feels as if she's on fire. "Why do you say these things?" Hawke only glares at her. Aveline lifts her, slamming her into the wall again. Hawke is as tall as she is but slighter. Rage fuels Aveline. Hawke might as well be a doll. Aveline's voice is loud but muffled with emotion. "Why do you have to be such a bitch?"

There's a knock on the door. If anyone walked in now the guard would be called. A barrage of swords would be pointed at Aveline. She would be beaten down. Maybe, anyway. Or the opposite could happen. They could take her side against all odds. It is reassuring and alarming that they could take her side. Hawke has saved Kirkwall time and time again.

The crown is crooked on Hawke's head, her lips a red, firm line. Aveline holds her tightly. A small river of blood runs down Hawke's neck and forehead. It must have been from the crown. It must have stabbed into her flesh. The knock comes again. Bran asks whether everything is all right. "The Captain of the Guard has me pinned to the wall. Nothing to worry about." Hawke's tone is bored. Her eyes are wrath. "Unhand me this instant. You will leave through the front door or through the window. The decision is yours."

Aveline pounds her into the wall again. "Do it. Do it then, Hawke. For all your action you're nothing but talk. Was everything you said to me that night a lie?" Hawke's crown falls away, rolls onto its side on the floor. Beads of blood stand on the barbs. Her voice lowers. "Did you use that damnable blood magic on me? Why else would I have given myself to you? You're nothing but a shade of who you were."

Hawke's face is obscured by emotion. "Get out," she growls. Aveline releases her. What is she doing? What is she saying? What else can she say? Why should she always be the grown up? Why does Hawke get to behave as a monster and leave _her_ feeling guilty? Every time. Donnic is right. Hawke uses her emotion to manipulate her. She must. She must know.

"You disgust me," Aveline says.

Hawke shudders, bringing a hand to her face, leaving streaks of blood along her skin. She's reaching to the desk for support when Aveline exits, this time slamming the door shut behind her.

* * *

They sky is washed out in crimson and the shade of smoldering embers. All of Kirkwall has turned out for the executions. The Fereldan King Cousland is in attendance along with his wife Queen Anora. Seneschal Bran alerted Hawke of the news mere days before their arrival, leaving the two of them scrambling to find someplace 'suitable' for their majesties to watch the execution. A warden Cousland may be but Bran and Hawke thought it best to have both Templars and the City-Guard assigned as a protective detail. It would not bode well for Kirkwall's image if the Fereldan King and Queen died under the watch of some apostate viscount. Bran made sure to hammer the point several times until she consented to their guard.

Donnic sniffles beside her. Hawke chose him to stand guard, her own brand of irony and humor at work. Both he and Aveline appear to be grated by the request but neither have verbally complained. Donnic has kept his face serious as stone, not cracking a smile for the majority of the day, answering monosyllabically when a question is asked. "What a big day for you. A guardsman guarding the Viscount." Hawke remarks. His scruffy face hardens. It doesn't appear as if he bothered shaving this morning. "Don't let me down. It'd be awful if something happened to me."

"Tragic." He says.

Hawke stares at him.

Aveline is some fifteen yards away, watching from a balcony beside the King and Queen. Bran is next to Cousland, a hand to his shoulder, gossiping no doubt. She can't read any expression on Aveline's face. There is a sea of people between them. Her heart pounds nervously. Cullen stands at the opposite end of the platform, dressed in his regalia. He complained vehemently about the event but unlike Donnic, shined his armor, shaved his face. He is as grim as ever, a stark contrast to the excited faces in the crowd.

Hawke moves along the platform. The prisoners are in a straight line, arms bound behind them, necks noosed. Feynriel is ashy. Idunna looks straight ahead as if she were somewhere else. Kirkwall is chatty and jovial. Hawke does not recall an All Soul's Day that was so merry. They're all there in their finery. Darktown has crawled out of the sewers, faces smudged with dirt. The small boy stands on a stool, the tiny noose near comical. His feet are bare, toe nails long. His expression is dark and defiant. Hawke moves around them, hearing her footsteps too loudly on the wooden platform. Their skin is sallow. The other three mages mutter incoherently to themselves.

Hawke moves in front of them. The crowd bursts into applause. Hawke is momentarily jarred. People cry out her name. Men and women watch her intently, some lecherously. Shouts of 'hang them!' begin. Hawke grits her jaw. She raises her arm, a roll of papers clenched in hand. The crowd roars. Several minutes pass before they quiet.

She clears her throat. She is not used to speeches but she will be heard. Her voice will carry across the mass of people if she speaks clearly. "Citizens of Kirkwall, we are gathered here today to remember those we have lost. Kirkwall has had a difficult year. Can any here say they have not been affected by some tragedy since last All Soul's Day? Can anyone here say they have not lost someone they knew and loved?"

The crowd murmurs, some bowing their head, some speaking to neighbors, others still look angry.

"I came to Kirkwall ten years ago, fleeing the Blight. Like you, I have lost too much. My apostate sister was taken by darkspawn while trying to save my mother. My brother was taken by betrayal in the Deep Roads. My mother was murdered by a man who stalked this city for years searching for lonely, vulnerable women while the Templars and the City-Guard sat on their hands!" She hears Donnic and Cullen mutter but ignores them. Her throat tightens thinking of Quentin. "If you believe the Templars and the Chantry, you will cast your blame on magic, mages and apostates. They will blame mages for the darkspawn and for all sin. But I ask you, whom was it that saved our fair city? Was it the Chantry who stood against the qunari threat?" They call out no. "Was it the Templars who stopped a sociopathic blood mage?" More shouts of 'no' ring out. "The City-Guard is a valiant organization with an honorable captain but was it the City-Guard who dispensed justice to the Magistrate's savage when he murdered and raped young elven children?" The crowd cries out their dissent. Lia looks at Hawke gratefully, uncomfortably.

Hawke lifts a hand and they eventually silence. "I will not pretend that mages are incapable of evil. It was a fanatic apostate who blew up the Chantry. I knew the man." He had always been so careful with her. He handled her as if she was glass. "But I did not let my feelings stand in the way of avenging the wrong that was done to Kirkwall. The Grand Cleric's death was avenged at my hand." Cheers ring out. "And when the mages rebelled it was I who annulled the Circle!"

The crowd is uneasy now, unsure of whether they should cheer. They watch her apprehensively. "There is no greater city in Thedas than Kirkwall. Our people are strong! We fight! And we carry on, no matter the odds, no matter the anguish! We have lost too much this past year. We have not lost it to mages or Templars or the City-Guard. We have lost it to the darkness in our hearts. Darkness breeds in all hearts, especially those filled with grief and loss and loneliness." Her eyes flick to Aveline.

"You have come here for an execution!" There are a few people who clap but they quickly stop when others don't join in. "These mages were left in the Gallows for weeks, underfed, undocumented! The City-Guard wanted an execution for these so-called criminals! The Templars wanted to make them tranquil! Imagine a fate worse than death, a punishment that leaves you but a husk with no feeling, with no independent thought. Tranquility is inflicted on mages against their will! It is inflicted when Templars are frightened and suspicious. They require no proof, just a gut feeling. Is that the brand of justice you would see Kirkwall uphold? Is that a fate you would have cast on your own children, simply for being?" The crowd shouts. "How many of you ever went to the Gallows when it stood?" Some raise their hands. "And how many of you spoke to the mages there?" More hands, more nods. "Did you know that simply talking to them was enough to warrant countless lashings when they were returned to their imprisonment? The Templars of Kirkwall searched long and hard for abominations. They never thought to look in the mirror!"

Boos spill from the crowd. "Many Circle mages never have the opportunity for love. They learn of their families from registries! In Kirkwall they were pets to be used at the discretion of the Templars. Tell me, citizens, would you allow your children to be treated this way simply for being different? How many of you here have mage children?" There's silence. "It is a shameful thing to be ostracized for having magic in your bloodline. A burden my Amell family knew well. How many of you here are remembering your mage children now? How many of you lost sons and daughters when the Circle was annulled? Did they demand too much when they asked not for freedom but for dignity?"

Hawke scans the crowd. "And here is what we have left of the Circle." She lifts the papers. "This man," she points at Feynriel, "left Kirkwall to study amongst his Dalish people. Yet he was hunted and brought back despite the Templars inability to teach him! This woman," she points at Idunna, "has served the Templars in all the ways that a wife serves her husband. They wanted to keep her silent. They don't care that she follows the Maker, the same Maker they claim to follow! Would you have them force tranquilization on her to mask their own shame?" The crowd shuffles. "And this boy here…" she looks at the child, "is seven years old. The Templars claim he has murdered hundreds!" The gasp ripples through the audience. "Look at him! Do you think him as dangerous as me?" She waves the papers. "When asked to provide the documentation for the alleged crimes of these mages the Templars could not find it. They claimed the documentation was lost in the chaos of the annulment. Yet when I advised against execution, against annulment, they presented me with this! Still wet with ink!" she throws the papers into the crowd. They go at them like animals, tearing into it, ripping it to pieces in their desperation to read it.

"Kirkwall has changed. Not only have we lost the precious lives of our friends and families but we have lost the Chantry. The Templars have lost their supply of lyrium. Deprivation for those who are accustomed often leads to paranoia. They can't tell memory from dream, past from present and too much… we all know what happened to Knight-Commander Meredith. Her madness tore this city apart! Look at the few Templars who remain in the city and tell me you have not seen the emptiness in their eyes. Are these the men and women you want deciding the fates of the innocent? Look at these mages! Look at them! The Templars see demons in every corner. They have attacked _me_ on multiple occasions despite my aid. Knight-Commander Meredith tried to have me killed! Am I the menace of Kirkwall?" The crowd denies her claim. "Are we to trust their word on the true dangers of this city?"

The crowd screams. The sky is the color of blood. Cullen looks at her murderously, his hand wrapped firmly around the hilt of his sword. He is sweaty and shaking. "You came here for an execution! I believe that Kirkwall has had enough death to last us another ten years! These mages are innocent! Now, I know how you doubt. What if she's lying? You wonder. What if I just can't stop myself from defending mages? I killed a man close to my heart in the pursuit of justice." Her lips nearly twist into a smile. "And I annulled the Circle. Countless mages were killed to keep you safe. Safe from those who only wanted an opportunity at the life we all take for granted. For years I have had men and women bend their knee at my presence but it is I who serves you." She looks at the crowd and kneels before them. "I am _your_ Champion. I am _your_ Viscount. If you think we should add these innocents to the souls we mourn on this day I will not stop you. But you will have to come up here and kill them yourselves. You can start with the boy."

A bird caws overhead but no one moves. Hawke glances at Cullen. He draws his sword and in two steps has closed the distance between them.

She can't react.

His knee collides violently with her face, knocking her solidly on her back. A fountain of blood bursts from her nose. The crowd gasps. She sees his legs, clad in metal circle her, his sword at her throat, pressing. "They may not see what you are doing but I—"

He doesn't finish the sentence. The crowd moves in like a wave, reaching on stage and pulling him back, pulling him under. Donnic rushes forward. "Unhand him!" He screams, jumping off the platform. "Guards! Stop them!"

There is noise everywhere. Hawke stares up at the sky. The red sun has slunk beneath the horizon. There are glimmers of smiles on the mages lips. Hawke traces the cut along her throat. It burns. She turns on her side and coughs up a glob of blood before pushing to her feet, a hand clutched to her neck. She lifts her arm again.

The applause is thunderous. Every one of them chants her name.

* * *

Aveline can think of no worse All Soul's Day. Aveline didn't expect any different but is no less worn for it. Cullen is in the brig, bloodied to a pulp. Guarding him will be a difficult task—especially now that he's made himself an enemy to all of Kirkwall. It's difficult to believe that Hawke spoke to the city at such length. The woman is a taciturn by nature. Where were all those diplomatic words when they worked closely together for so many years? Wasn't it usually a knife to the throat and a threat that settled matters for her?

The torch burns dimly in her office. She has returned to the Keep after a lengthy argument with Donnic. She doesn't know what they fought about. _Are you talking to me as a Captain or as a disappointed wife?_ He asked. Aveline still isn't sure. Both? _You had one task, Donnic. To protect the Viscount and when she was attacked you rushed to the defense of her attacker!_ They'd gone back and forth until Aveline stormed back to the Keep.

The event was a disaster for the Templars and the City-Guard. Hawke must be overjoyed to have proved them both incompetent in front of all of Kirkwall. What an embarrassment, in front of the Fereldan King and Queen! Aveline knows part of her guilt stems from not being at Hawke's side. She allowed her personal feelings to affect her professional duty.

What happened to Cullen to make him lose it like that? Attacking the Viscount in front of the city. Yes, Hawke said some hard things… things that were not entirely false. Yet, he should have known better. He shouldn't have let her bait him. What he's done is written the Templar Order out of Kirkwall.

Hawke couldn't have made it any more perfect if she'd tried. Did she try…? And what of those mages? What happens to them? None were executed. Have they left the city? Will they remain? Who will keep an eye on them? The remaining Templars? The Guard? Hawke? There are too many unanswered questions.

The normal sentence for anyone who attacks the Viscount is execution. Yet it was Hawke on that stage that told the crowds to release Cullen, to show mercy. Funny that. When has Hawke ever shown it? Is it all a game? She wipes her face, exhausted. When she looks up, Hawke is there.

Aveline stands. She isn't sure whether it's the custom greeting for a figure of respect or the surprise of seeing her. The door is ajar. Hawke asks, quietly, whether she can enter. Aveline nods and Hawke steps inside hesitantly. Aveline doesn't know what to say. She's still angry from the last time they spoke but she's concerned now and mad at herself for allowing what happened to come to pass. "That was some speech you gave. Incendiary but it wouldn't be true to form if it weren't."

"I'm not here to talk about that."

_Here we go._ Aveline moves around the desk and sits on the edge. She crosses her arms. "All right." Hawke comes closer. Her face is bruised. Her nose isn't quite right. It's swollen and somewhat twisted. Is it broken? There's a deep gash along her neck, dirt beneath her nails. Aveline stands to better look at her. That bastard, Cullen. She had always thought him a good man. "Maker, Hawke." She reaches for her but Hawke dodges the contact. It's probably for the better. Aveline ignores the bite of the insult. "I'm sorry about… well. What happened." She takes a breath. She will not blame Donnic. But would it have happened differently if it was Viscount Dumar? Donnic is a good guard and fast with a blade. Cullen more so but what happened was unacceptable. "I should have been beside you. If you want to replace me as Captain of the Guard… Well. I won't like it but I'll understand."

"What?" Hawke shakes her head. She acts as if Kirkwall hasn't had one of the most eventful days since their arrival ten years ago. "I wanted to say…" Her brow furrows. She looks off to the side, fingers absently tangled. "Sorry." She makes it sound like a question before looking at her. Her face makes Aveline sorrowful. "I said a terrible thing. Terrible things. The last time that we…"

"So did I." Aveline forces, hating how she'll talk to the woman each time she vows she won't. Her promises used to mean something. "Did you mean any of it?" Hawke's silent. Aveline shifts under her direct, imploring gaze. "Damn you, Hawke. Talk to me." Her voice is quiet though she's relatively sure the Keep is empty.

"Do you really think I used blood magic on you?"

Aveline considers. "It'd be easier."

"It would be but I didn't. I wouldn't. Never against you. Take responsibility for your actions." And just like that, the sneer is back in her lips. "Do you think it is easy for me to see you with your idiot husband?" Aveline frowns, wishing as she often has, that Donnic and Hawke had a fondness for one another. "You've never acknowledged what happened between us. It's been months. Have you forgotten so quickly?"

"Forget a 'lousy fuck' like that?" She glowers at her. Hawke has the decency to look away. "I'm afraid I don't have the luxury. Unfortunately I do think about what my 'dead Templar husband' would say, I do think about what 'boring, dependable Donnic' would think. Maker, Hawke. Do you think me made of stone? You make a mockery of the things and people I love. You make it a sport to wound me. Do you know that nobody can incense me the way you do? Hurt me the way you do?"

"It wouldn't hurt if you didn't love me." Hawke takes Aveline's arm possessively and steps closer. "I would burn this city to the ground for you."

"Is that how you confess love?"

"It's not bloody copper marigolds but it will do."

She's injured her. Strange. "The words would do. And I wouldn't ask." Once more she's unsure of what in particular she means. Hawke confuses her head. Her heart hammers again. The day has been long and trying. She has just argued with Donnic and now she's left alone in the Keep with her dear friend, the Viscount. Is Hawke manipulative? Does she actually care for her? Or is it all a game to spite Donnic? To get the upper hand? "Why didn't you heal your face?"

The question takes her aback, her hold on Aveline's arm loosening. "I'm drained. Healing isn't a talent of mine. Anders usually did it."

Why can't Hawke look at her? Is she lying? Is she ashamed? Aveline doesn't trust it or maybe she knows that not trusting Hawke is the only way to save herself. "Let me go."

"I've tried for a decade." Hawke presses closer. Aveline's back hits the desk. "I _hate_ sharing you with him. I wish I could take your love for him."

Aveline chills. "You can't."

"You deserve better." Hawke takes a shaking breath. Aveline scowls. "If you want to pretend this is blood magic, pretend it's blood magic." Her voice is hard but her eyes, harder to control, make the words a plea.

Aveline breathes her name, a warning. But when Hawke's trembling lips touch hers, not even the shame is enough to stop them. If only it were as simple as blood magic and she could be blameless. If only she could be a good wife.

It's difficult to fathom Hawke as a ruthless viscount. She's delicate like this. It's taking advantage. Aveline has rarely been able to turn away loved ones in need. And there is a need. Aveline takes her on the desk with a desperate sense of urgency. Aveline hates herself now for how much she'll hate herself later. She can't stop herself. Why can't she stop herself? It should be easy. Hawke smells of blood and dirt.

* * *

King Cousland is quick to smile but Queen Anora is a reserved woman with a watchful eye. Hawke likes her. In some ways she reminds her of Aveline. The feeling does not appear to be mutual. Anora is cool and unresponsive to her. They move through the Keep with some curiosity before the three settle in her office. Aedan taking a seat on the chair opposite of the desk. Anora watches out the window.

"The last time I was here Knight-Commander Meredith ruled the city and wasn't looking to make some apostate Champion the Viscount." He smiles, taking a templar figurine off the desk and turning it in his hands. "Yet here you are. How'd you get her to change her mind?"

"Don't tell me the King of Ferelden is so woefully uninformed. I killed her." She smiles and takes a seat. "Meredith wasn't one to change her mind over anything. Not even for terribly helpful apostates. As for the Viscountship… things happened to play out this way."

"With no influence from you?" Anora asks. Hawke glances at her. "I somehow doubt that."

"You doubt much, Dear," Cousland says dryly. "That was quite the show you put on yesterday, Serah Hawke." He eyes her for a length of time. "And quite the blow you took. But you look well." Hawke smiles wanly. Her face is restored today, Bran insisted on it, claiming that no one would take a beaten Viscount seriously. "A pity about Cullen. He's had a troubled life."

"Less troubled than his charges, I'm sure."

Cousland smiles. "No doubt. I harbor no ill will towards apostates. I've met a few in my day, just as I've met my share of Templars. A good lot. My best friend was a templar." Hawke's eyes darken. "Is it true that Anders is dead? And you were the one to kill him? I liked him." Hawke is silent. "They speak of him throughout Ferelden. They raise banners in his name. They consider him a hero."

"He wasn't." But Hawke is no longer sure. There is no question that what he did was despicable. Grand Cleric Elthina was a decent woman though she was in the pocket of the Knight-Commander and didn't have the conviction to stand for any cause. It didn't have to play out in the way that it did. She did not deserve to die. The men and women of the Chantry did not deserve to die. And yet… it has brought a rebellion, it has opened the eyes of Thedas to the plight of the mages. "He was only a man."

"You should know that outside of Kirkwall, you are viewed unfavorably by mages. They consider Anders a martyr, you a traitor to your own kind." Cousland watches her. Hawke curls her fingers on the desk. "They speak more favorably of the Witch of the Wilds than they do of you." He laughs. "Maybe if they laid eyes on you they'd think different. I've seen the drawings done by your naysayers. Not flattering."

Anora leaves the window and takes a seat beside Cousland, clearly unimpressed by the tone of the conversation. Hawke wonders if their marriage was founded on any love or political expediency. Has it flowered there or do they both despise one another? Have they settled for one another? "What will you do… Hawke," Anora tries the name out, wrapping it around her tongue before her blue eyes flick to her, "if your detractors come for you? It appears that the Templars are on the way out… who will defend Kirkwall from a sea of mages set on killing or capturing you?"

"I've never needed templars to kill mages. If enemies want my head they can come here and try to get it. I welcome the challenge. The Garden's gate spikes have gone undecorated for long enough."

A hint of a smile touches Anora's lips. Cousland rubs his hands. "You just gave me the shivers! It's been a long time since a witch gave me a chill like that." Anora crosses her leg away from him. "Do you think it's wise to invite war on the city?" he asks. "Diplomacy goes a long way."

"And fear will teach them not to bother making the trip," Hawke responds. "You may be the Ferelden King but this is my city. You honor me with your visit," she says without feeling, "but you will not dictate how I manage my affairs."

Cousland smiles thinly, returning the figurine to the desk. The rest of the time is spent making small talk of the Blight and the Landsmeet meeting of ages ago. Hawke bears the conversation, despite finding it dull and finally they rise to exit. Cousland exits first, quickly drawn in by Bran who traps him in talk of traveling arrangements and gossip of the Pearl.

"You have done something remarkable here, Hawke and with no man by your side." Anora takes a breath. "Have the times changed, I wonder? Cousland is a good man. A peaceful and thoughtful man but had I been able to rule alone I would have. How did you do it?"

"The way men and women have throughout time—with violence." She watches Bran touch Cousland's shoulder, leading him elsewhere. She will have to have a talk with the man and his inability to keep his hands to himself. Not that she has much room to speak. "I hope your visit to the city was…" she doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to say to these things. "Have I made an enemy of your husband?" Hawke asks.

Anora bows her head thoughtfully. "I cannot say. His mind is his own. But you have made an ally out of me. Peace be with you, Hawke. If you are ever in need of aid, the Queen of Ferelden will stand by your side."

* * *

Aveline finds him sitting at the kitchen table. His shoulders are slumped, face in his hands. It's early. He shouldn't be off-duty yet. She goes cold. "What's happened?" she asks. Her first thought is that a guardsman has died. Crime has dropped considerably since Hawke became viscount but it has not gone altogether. She kneels at his side, taking his hand. He yanks it away. Her heart drops. Is it Hawke…? Does he know about her? Did Hawke tell him…? "Donnic…"

He lowers his hands. "I've lost my position in the guard. Effective immediately."

"What?" She shakes her head. "That's not possible. I'm the captain of the guard. No one is dismissed without my say so. This is a mistake."

"It's no mistake." Donnic glares at her. "If you have a problem with it, go talk to your friend, the Viscount." Aveline has never seen him look at her like that. She tries to take his hand once more but he stands and walks away from her. "The Guard is all I've ever known." Aveline rises to her feet helplessly. "She gave me a choice: lose my position or face exile or imprisonment." Aveline's throat goes dry. "You didn't know about this?" he demands.

"No! How could I?"

"You were so angry that night—!" He says and she can see that he is fighting tears. This is his livelihood. The Guard is what brought them together. "I keep thinking about All Soul's Day. I don't know what happened. I am not a bad guardsman—"

"I know, love. I know."

"But when the Knight-Captain attacked—I don't know. I should have moved. I could not." He squares his jaw, a hand covering his mouth. "I hate her, Aveline. I hate Hawke. I don't like what she's done to this city. I don't like the way – she gets inside of you," Aveline's face burns red, "so that you can't let her go. I hate the way she looks at you. I feel her eyes stab into me when I'm near." He runs his fingers through his hair. "I don't know what happened that day. Instinct should have kicked in and made me stop him. I couldn't move until it was too late. Maybe I didn't want to. Maybe I wanted Cullen to end the bitch."

Aveline sits where he previously did. She doesn't follow him when he exits the kitchen, when he exits the home. She contemplates for hours and listens to him return home, stumble around, the smell of alcohol coming off him in waves. He passes out on the bed, with little to say to her outside of incoherent mumbling. Aveline pulls his boots off and watches him sleep.

She leaves the home with the sunrise. The Keep is alive now. It's safe to visit Hawke. Had she gone when it was empty what might have happened? She would have throttled the woman or worse, slept with her again. It has to end. She cannot continue this deception. She will not take part in making a fool of Donnic while the woman she sleeps with plagues his life. It doesn't matter what she feels. Hawke is strong. She can be without her.

Aveline makes her way to the throne room. Nobles dressed to the nines are there, along with some guards. Aveline marches up the red carpeted steps to stand in front of her. She sits on the throne, looking as if she were born into royalty, with an air of confidence that dares you to question her power. Hawke cocks her head, looking at her much the way an animal eyes a curious and unrecognized intrusion. "I need to talk to you," Aveline says. "Now."

Bran, beside Hawke, starts up. "You'll have to get in line. The Viscount has a long list of nobles awaiting an audience." He looks over a list that he has, quill in hand and makes a mark. "She doesn't have time for the captain of the guard."

Hawke lifts her head up to him. "Bran. Do shut up and get these people out of here." He looks at her as if she's grown a second head. "You're not the only one who can make lists. I have one with those eager and capable of filling your position. Prove to me that you can do your duty and do as I say."

Bran nearly trips taking the steps down to where the nobles wait. "Out, out, all of you. There is an urgent matter concerning the safety of Kirkwall," he says ushering them out the doors.

Aveline waits until the doors have closed before fixing her heated glare on Hawke. "How could you?" she asks. Hawke looks up at her. "You have taken his livelihood. You have undermined _me_—"

"He undermined himself—"

"Shut up. Shut up, Hawke. It doesn't matter one whit to me whether you are Viscount or no. I have beaten you down once, I will not hesitate to do so again." Aveline shakes, her fingers curling and uncurling.

"You look tired."

"I am. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of you. I am exhausted of your games and your duplicity." Aveline's voice echoes in the large space. Hawke looks at her as if hearing her concerns in earnest. It makes Aveline angrier. She has seen her interact with nobles much the same way, her features molding into concern only to ridicule them after their exit.

"I haven't lied to you."

"You threatened Donnic with imprisonment? With exile? He's my husband! Did you not think I would find out? Did you think I would let it slide?" She demands. "What is he to do now?"

"He can pick up a trade, just as you advised Carver do. He wanted very badly to be in the guard, if you recall." Hawke settles her chin on her hand and gazes at her.

She doesn't flinch when Aveline grabs her by the scruff of her robe and yanks her to her feet. Aveline will not allow Hawke to make her feel guilty about this. For years she has thrust guilt her way about Quentin, about Carver, about Donnic. "I will not allow this."

"Won't you? It seems as if you'll allow everything else." She talks louder now, her voice adopting its common edge. "When I told you that the city guard did not trust me you brushed it away. When I asked you to give me names you _refused_. You insisted that I would start a witch hunt. You implied that their fear was justified. You implied that you would run your guard in an orderly fashion and keep this city safe, keep _me_ safe. Instead, your husband stood idle as the Knight-Captain nearly butchered me...!"

Aveline fists curl the fabric of Hawke's robe tightly in her hand. "What did you do to him?"

"And you did nothing about it…! Have you forgotten that you are sworn to protect me?" Hawke asks. "That the Guard is sworn to protect me?" She rips away from her, hair fallen over her face, crown slipping forward.

"You have always been capable enough to take care of yourself…!"

"It only took a decade of stalking for you to come to the conclusion?" she laughs caustically. "Has it ever occurred to you that your husband may be in league with the Templars, with the rest of the Guard to overthrow me?"

"That's ridiculous. Listen to yourself." Her throat is hoarse. "Donnic is a good man…!" No matter what he said he would never let anyone kill Hawke. Not on his watch. No matter his feelings. He would fight to keep Hawke alive for Aveline's sake if nothing more. "He is better than us."

Hawke, who paced furiously, stops. She tears her fingers through her hair. She sits on the throne again. Adjusts the crown. "This matter is finished." She says calmly. "Donnic is irrelevant. I've promoted Lia to sergeant. Feynriel and Idunna have joined the Guard."

"_What?" _Feynriel, the walker of dreams? Idunna, the blood mage? "You've taken them from the executioner's block and put them in the guard? Marethari and the Templars thought Feynriel to be dangerously close to being an abomination. When we met Idunna, she was implanting demons in Templars, she tried to get you to kill yourself." She stares at Hawke, flummoxed. "What are you thinking? Are you mad? We can't have mages in the Guard."

"Why not?" Hawke asks curtly. Her eyes are dark. "What is it with you people. We're good for a fuck but nothing else?" Aveline flushes with anger. "I need people in the Guard. People I can _trust_."

"Them? You trust _them_? How, Hawke?" Aveline can't hold still. Hawke follows her movements with her eyes. "You rid yourself of a good guardsman for a maleficar?"

"_I'm_ a maleficar."

"And you expect me to have no quarrel with you? You expect me to not ask questions? How can I trust your judgment?"

"You trust no other part of me. Why should I be surprised or disappointed?" Hawke bows her head, shakes it once. "If I carved a piece out of myself every time you disappointed me, I would be hollow."

"Aren't you already?" Aveline asks. Hawke's lips twitch. Their eyes lock. "You're asking me to put the lives of my men and women on untrustworthy mages."

"As I have put mine in a guard who would see me dead. And they're not the only ones. The Ferelden King and Queen say that outside of Kirkwall, I am wanted dead, by apostates, by mages. They would end me for killing Anders." She laughs. "Maker. I am safe nowhere. Not in Kirkwall, not outside of this city, not here, not with you."

Aveline plants her hands on her hips. There is a lump in her throat. "Kirkwall has not been kind."

Hawke smiles faintly. "You have been unkindest of all."

Is it true? "I will not lead a city guard I cannot depend on. I will not pretend to have some authority over decisions that have been left out of my control. I will not endanger the men and women I have sworn to protect." Hawke smirks. Aveline continues. She won't be embarrassed into silence. "Tell me the truth. Why are you placing these apostates in the Guard?"

"I've told you."

"Tell me again."

"I don't trust your guard, Aveline. I don't trust you to have my best interests at heart. I don't trust you to have my back when the Guard inevitably turns against me. You love them. You don't love me."

"Is that what this is about?"

"This is about my skin. This is about your unwillingness to do your job."

"But _how_ can you trust them? You're not one to trust a mage simply because they _are_ a mage." The countless dead that she's left in her wake have proved the point admirably. "Did you… Did you do something to them? It wouldn't be the first time a mage turned against their own." Hawke stands. "Did you use blood magic? Have you…? Outside of the Wounded Coast?" Hawke's eyes glisten. "Have you used it as a means of control? Have you violated someone's mind?"

"_Yes."_

Aveline's hand goes to the hilt of her sword. She brings the blade to Hawke's neck. The metal rattles, clinking against the metal of her glove. Hawke takes deep breaths, releasing them unsteadily. "Did you use it on All Soul's Day?"

Hawke's chin quivers. "If you aim to kill me just get it over with."

Aveline's vision is blurry, obscuring Hawke's face. Hawke lifts her chin, giving her better access. There is the white scar left by Cullen's sword. She could cleave Hawke's head clean off. She could leave Kirkwall with another headless viscount. She might be doing Kirkwall a favor. But what if she's wrong? What if Hawke is stubborn? What if Hawke is choosing this moment to taunt her? To test her? Aveline vowed to herself that she would always watch over Hawke, keep her safe. She throws her sword down. "Keep your guard. I want no part of it. I want no part of you."

The sword clatters down the steps, moving in tandem with her own. She doesn't look back.

* * *

Cullen has left Kirkwall. He left with his templar regalia and sword in hand, escorted by the remaining few templars. Hawke will not announce his crimes. His armor will make him a target not just to mages but to the criminal element as well: lyrium smugglers, criminal cartels. He is no longer Hawke's concern. She thanks Lia and Feynriel for the news and leaves the Keep, making her way to the estate.

The grass in the small garden is overgrown. Hawke touches the plush grass and sits in front of her mother's grave. She makes silent apologies for everything she got wrong, for all the ways that she let them down. Beside her mother's plot is a fresh mound of dirt, only four feet tall. A daisy sits starkly on it. Merrill. It must have been Merrill.

Hawke thinks of the mage boy from the Gallows. His name had been Samuel before the demon took him. She had been unsure that day at the Gallows. She was not a master at treading upon minds, reading thoughts. She gave him free reign of her home and brought Merrill a phylactery of his blood, wanting to be proved wrong. She wasn't. He was an abomination. A boy whose body was sold by a blood mage to a demon. The demon killed hundreds before entering that body and killed more while in it. He was eating bread in her kitchen when Hawke returned, pulling the dagger from her side on his approach. Samuel looked so much like Carver. Plunging the knife into his heart had been like plunging it into her own. He convulsed and thrashed in her arms before stilling.

Merrill later found her crying over the small grave, over his tiny body. Hawke shakes the events of All Soul's Day away. She was covered in grime, blood and tears. Hawke wonders if it was a mistake to not tell Aveline. They both made their choices. Her choices, it would seem, have damned and dashed her every hope.

She tries to move on.

The City-Guard is without Donnic or Aveline. Still, they carry on. Bran brings her news every morning from all parts of Thedas, telling her of the terror that the mage rebellion has become. Some say that the Blight will return again. War makes its way steadily to Kirkwall.

Every once in a while Hawke remembers the sharpness of Aveline's sword against her throat. She contrasts the sensation by burying herself in memories of her kiss. She thinks of her every day but has not seen her in months. One day she removes the crown from her head and sets it on the desk. She takes out a creamy sheet of paper and begins a letter.

* * *

_Dearest Aveline,_

_If you have received this letter, I am gone. I have accomplished what I can. Kirkwall will no longer be known as the City of Chains. I have kept the citizens safe, the best I could. I owe a great deal to your influence. This city owes you a great debt as I do—a debt, that sadly, will likely never be repaid. _

_It is my hope that one day you'll return to the City-Guard. They're a good group but under your guidance, they would be unmatched. Don't worry, I have safeguards in place so both mages and non-mages are kept out of danger—from one another, at least._

_I have heard rumors that there are people coming after me. Assassins and mages, sure but some other group. The Seekers of Truth. They sound dangerous—to me, anyway…and I do not wish to trouble Kirkwall further._

_Despite my attempts to make this city free, I have been unable to escape you. I hope one day you'll forgive me for all the trouble I caused. I wish you happiness, Aveline with or without me._

_With all my love,_

_Marian Hawke_

Aveline folds the letter after having read it for the fifth consecutive time. The sun is setting in Kirkwall. She has one foot in the door of her home, another outside. She is keenly aware that she must make a decision.


	3. Short: Doubts That Linger

A/N: I lied. The following shorts are kind of out of order. Some take place in act two and some take place in between acts 2 and 3.

* * *

Hawke wakes in the middle of the night, covered in sweat. Visions of Aveline in the Fade continue to haunt her. Aveline was the last person she thought could be turned by a foul desire demon. Hawke thought her too honorable and controlled. What a fool mistake.

Aveline would forsake her easily for Wesley. _All your troubles began when you met this apostate._ Wesley said. Hawke's fingers balled into fists at hearing his taunts; her nostrils flared. Perhaps Aveline was only bitter at not having killed him herself. Or was she angry that Hawke took him from this world?

Aveline's eyes were pits of black, focused solely on ending her, all so she could be reunited with her dead husband. Things are strange in the Fade. Aveline's sword sliced into her. She used her shield with brutal force, knocking it into her face, slamming her to the ground, bleeding. It hurt but it didn't. The Fade was the first time Hawke lifted her staff against Aveline. Her stomach clenched, her insides squeezed. She was cold as death.

She vows never do it again. Anders took a perverse joy in helping Hawke finish her. He was furious with Hawke for dragging him into the Fade but she isn't concerned about him.

She should have known that Aveline could turn against her. She should have. Still, that feral desperation is what stung most of all. Would Aveline give up everything, her, for a chance to get a dead templar back…?

Hawke throws the blankets off, the frigid air clinging to her, much like the Fade. Aveline was morose and taciturn when they returned to this world. She snuck away while Hawke talked business with Marethari and Ariane. The bloody coward. Hawke paces the room. Merrill turned against her. They all turned against her. What good are they? It's unfair that the others can leave their doubts behind in the Fade and here, outside of the Veil, she remains tested.

She forces herself to still and takes to her journal, writing in detail over the event. The journal is the only thing she is able to fully trust. She thought she could trust Aveline. Maybe that's what stings most of all. That and that Aveline hasn't sought her out to make apologies for her betrayal.

In the early morning, when the sky is still black, Hawke dresses. She always makes it a point to look presentable but especially so when she goes to the Keep and when she plans to see Aveline. Both have keen eyes like eagles and she is aware of the unnecessary struggle she may encounter were she to dress and present herself as a more ordinary person. The Amell naysayers would use any opportunity against her and her mother. Hawke is more interested in making her surname something to look up to, a name that is respected. Her mother is too focused on living in the past.

She looks into the mirror. Her lips and cheeks are flushed red. It's an attractive face that many have trouble not gazing at but she sees her sister in it. She scowls at her expression, missing Bethany and exiting the mansion.

Aveline is in her office despite the absurdly early hour. Torches burn wanly against the walls. The bookshelves are burdened by books. The shelves are immaculate and free of dust but Hawke knows that Aveline has only read the books on law, on Templars, on apostates. The rest of the books are perfect, spines intact.

Aveline's donned the lower half of her armor, the chest piece still propped up on the armor mannequin. Hawke looks at the sharp edges of the shoulders, remembering how they felt cutting into her face. Aveline touches the armor before facing her. She wears a thin, sleeveless garment. It's been years since Hawke saw her bare, muscled arms. "Hawke. What are you doing here? It's early." Hawke readies to speak but Aveline beats her to it. "It's a bit chilly this morning, isn't it?" She sighs. "I can't get warm since we left the bloody Fade."

"So you remember it happened," Hawke's body flushes and cools, making her feel feverish. "Explain yourself." Aveline's eyebrows arch before dipping. "It's been days and not a bloody word. Merrill literally tripped over herself trying to get me an apology. And people say elves don't have manners. Yet, here I am, having to seek you out. I thought captains of the guard were supposed to know a thing or two about courtesy."

Aveline forgets the armor. "I see." Hawke clenches her jaw, feeling herself go on the defensive, bracing herself for the hit. There is anger in Aveline's steady voice. "You have your head so far up your ass I'm surprised you can tell night from day. Nothing new there. You selfish tit." Aveline comes so close that strands of her red hair brush along Hawke's face. "Have you stopped to think for a moment how bloody difficult that was for me? Seeing Wesley again—in that way. I never wanted to go to wretched place."

"Then you should have had the spine to tell me."

"I wanted to stand beside you, Hawke!" The muscles in her arm twitch and she steps away from her. "What happened—I never imagined it would. I thought I'd made peace with…Wesley and with you."

Hawke wonders if Aveline knows how her eyes go to the dagger at her side. "You've made so much peace that you would take a dead man's word over mine. Did you see him? Did you want to see?" She demands. She thinks of Wesley. He looked so much like Carver. They died the same, pasty and sweating, black veins lining their flesh, death come to life. Her anger mounts. "You _knew_ he was gone and still you turned against me." Her voice is raised. She takes a breath. Turns around and runs a hand through her hair.

"_I'm sorry." _Aveline says heatedly. "Can you tell me you would not do the same? If you could have Bethany or Carver?"

Hawke scowls. "No. They're dead. They're never coming back. I know that."

"I never thought about what it would be like to fall to a desire demon—I am not an apostate. I'm supposed to be free of such… temptations." Aveline takes a breath, going over by the desk, fingers skimming over the many notices on the desk. "For years I have been at your side. The Templars go too far. I don't question that. But you and I have fought countless apostates in our time together. I thought they were weak. The Templars always make your lot sound that way—incapable of controlling yourselves. I think part of me believed that. That they could only fall in a moment of desperation, when survival was at hand." She looks at her. "I was wrong."

Hawke studies her. Her heart beats nervously. "What are you saying?"

"I don't think I flatter myself when I say I'm a strong woman. I'm no mage. And still a demon was able to needle itself into my mind, into desires I didn't even know were there. I don't know how mages do it. I understand less how free mages can."

"Apostates?" Hawke's tongue twists around the word, feeling her anger boil.

"Without guidance… always persecuted. I see now why the Gallows exists. I understand the need for it." She lowers her eyes before they lift to Hawke's. "I see that look in your eye. You're angry. Most people's eyes get darker; yours go lighter, with rage." Aveline inches closer. "You like to deal in facts, Hawke, so hear this. I hear you and Merrill go on. I know that every time either one of you casts a spell it draws the attention of… _something_ beyond the Veil. Demons would have a field day with the two of you." Hawke bites her tongue. "Anders has already succumbed. Merrill is eagerly on her way. I hear Fenris say that mages will find any justification for getting more power. He's a bit of a zealot but he has a fair point. What's to stop you from doing the same? You're strong, Hawke. But how strong? How much more will you bear before you give in? This city is intent on beating you down."

The implication leaves her breathless. "You fall in the Fade and accuse me of weakness." Her lips tighten. "Well then. What's stopping you?" She extends her arms, fists clenched so she cannot be accused of any attack. "Turn me in to the bloody Knight-Commander. It'll be perfect. I can't lift a hand against you. Maybe she'll make me a tranquil and you won't have to answer so many of my petty questions."

Aveline takes hold of her arms and forces them back to her sides. Her hold is painful. "That isn't what I meant."

"It's exactly what you meant. Come on, Aveline," her voice softens, "I know what you think of Anders and Merrill. You act as if you have a soft spot for me, some respect… but you're only waiting until you have to round the city-guard to cut me down."

Aveline glares. "The cold of the Fade. Does it ever go away? Do you feel it always?"

Hawke thinks of casting spells. No matter how fiery the blaze may be, the warping of others minds, making them fall to the floor in terror with visions of what they fear most has always left her feeling as if she's covered in frost. That cold, alien feeling is only part of being a mage. "Yes."

"How do you not go numb from it?" Aveline asks. "Or have you?" Her hands slide down Hawke's arms, trail beneath her fingers before falling away altogether. Her touch is hot. Hawke tries not to shiver, to not make contact with her again. "I do trust you, Hawke. But I worry. You can't fault me for worrying. No doubt you will." She takes a seat at the edge of her desk, crossing her arms. "I'll never turn you over to the Templars. You must know that."

"You'll deal with the problem yourself?"

"Yes." She considers. "Do they frighten you?" she asks. Hawke doesn't reply. "You do mope an awful lot. Haven't you considered that this was all difficult for me? Seeing Wesley like that… being given an opportunity to have him returned to me? All at the expense of turning on my best friend. If you'd said before that I could do such a thing I would have thought you mad." She shrugs gently. "I'm sorry, Marian." Hawke shifts at hearing her name on Aveline's lips. It's rare that she addresses her that way. "You got me in the end."

"I always do," she says with a faint smile.

"Did it hurt? I don't know what it's like being on the other side of one of my attacks."

"You're strong." She brings a hand absently to her face. "Your shield split my lip and broke my nose."

Aveline's crestfallen expression makes Hawke feel better. "I'm sorry."

Hawke bites her tongue. "Me too." She swallows the lump in her throat. "It… must have been difficult to see him. I think…of what he said. That your troubles began when you met me. An apostate. It's…hard to hear that from him. From a Templar. I killed him." The day Hawke and her family fled the blight, they met Aveline. Hawke lost Bethany. Aveline lost Wesley. Aveline helped her get the Templar armor free from his chest. Hawke turned the hilt in her hand, centering the blade before pressing down into his heart. He had lurched forward, as if springing to a sitting. Hawke had thought it a kindness. Was it? She spent the majority of her life running from Templars. "Not that it was him. I don't know what it is that I mean to say. I suppose… that I cause you a lot of trouble. Yet you bear it all the same."

"You may be a pain in the ass but you're worth bearing it." She slides off the desk and grabs the chest piece to her armor, slipping it on. Hawke moves to her side, surprising Aveline by helping her latch the security belts into place. "Why did you come so early?"

"I had some errands. I was up." Hawke stops herself before she comes up with more excuses. "Listen. I'm sorry if I barged in here like… it's only that. Well. You're important to me. You're about the only person I trust in Kirkwall."

Aveline cocks an eyebrow. "What about Merrill? And Anders? He fancies you."

"Bugger Anders." She's irritated at the mention of him and is momentarily distracted. Aveline appears happy at her response. She continues to secure the armor. "Kirkwall is a hard city. I need you." She keeps her head down. "I need to know you'll stand at my side. When you don't… when I think you won't…" Aveline takes her arm. Hawke can't face her. Her cheeks burns in the dim, cold office. "I suppose it drives me a little mad."

"I never knew you could look this way," Aveline says in wonder. Hawke can't ask which way she means. "Forget what I said about the Gallows. I was scared and angry. And you're an ass. You know that I'm here for you. No matter what."

Hawke pulls her arm away, loathe as she is to do it. "Good. I care for you, Aveline. But don't even dream of betraying me again. I won't hold back forever."


	4. Short: The Wedding

A/N: Another short. Slightly AU as there is no way Hawke would let Aveline marry in her home.

* * *

Hawke isn't there. She promised and she isn't there. Aveline wears a white dress. She isn't accustomed to dresses. If only the whore hadn't fled town, she may have given her some pointers. Aveline would have groused but she may have taken them. Merrill's no good—she's slightly more hopeless than she is.

Aveline has no family to give her away. She wanted Hawke to be there. It isn't cruel. Hawke may have had… a crush. She doesn't know. Was it really the way she made it seem? Hawke? In love with her…? They always fought.

Maybe she's only running late.

Aveline holds the bouquet in her hands, an assorted collection of flowers gathered by Merrill. She feels ridiculous holding them—but the mirror reflection makes her look almost… She feels lovely.

The guards will all be in attendance. Merrill, Varric, Fenris, if he can find some shoes. She invited Anders as a courtesy but hopes he won't attend. She turns to gaze at herself in the mirror. Her hair is loose. She never leaves it that way but it isn't as if she can walk down the aisle in her armor and a headband. Not that it wouldn't be preferable.

She thinks of Wesley and guilt riddles into her heart. _No, not today_.

The day she told Hawke of her engagement to Donnic she felt a near physical rift grow between them. The distance in Hawke's eyes was near instantaneous. _I see. Congratulations._

_I wish you'd be happy for me._

_I will be, if that's what you want. _She made an excuse and left.

They didn't see each other often after that. Aveline sent her an invitation. A bit impersonal, perhaps but she could not bear her resentment any longer. Nor could she bear her carefully composed face, doubts and contention festering beneath the mask. When the two crossed paths later Aveline had asked if she'd be in attendance. Hawke agreed in her monosyllabic way and had swiftly moved on.

Weeks passed. They were best friends. The description isn't the most apt but it's the best that Aveline can find. She didn't know how to tell Hawke she missed her. And what of it? Things in Kirkwall settled down. Hawke is allowed a peaceful life. Maker knows she deserves it after everything she's been through. Aveline's guards reported Hawke's activity to her—which was little. At least she was safe. A tall 'handsome' man had begun to spend time with her, the guards said. Blonde with a long nose, a slender build. Aveline doesn't approve but she's never liked Anders. He is a heretic in every sense of the word.

How can Hawke break her word in this way? It isn't like her. Aveline finds herself ripped in every direction: abundantly happy and sad. She is prepared to marry the man that she loves with every fiber of her being—yet she feels alone.

She shouldn't feel this way.

A knock on the door quells her thoughts.

* * *

Hawke smothers her surprise when Anders arrives at her door. She regrets telling him she'd made plans to visit Starkhaven. She has allowed him to stay at her home (he sleeps in the library) when he is feeling particularly persecuted in Darktown but never in her bed to his disappointment. Knight-Commander Meredith is after him. He has assumed his presence puts her in danger and persists in following her everywhere. He forgets that she is capable of fending for herself.

He smiles generously, beating the snow that has accumulated on his robes and hair. It falls in wet clumps at his feet. "That snowstorm came out of nowhere. Thank the Maker I made it in time. You…will let me in, won't you?" he asks. She should have used a pseudonym. Hawke steps aside and he moves in. "I used up all of my coin just getting a room here. It's not a quarter of the size. I wasn't sure if you were predisposed to sharing."

The room she's rented is luxurious. It stretches as large as the first floor of her mansion. White marble columns are spaced along the room. Spirals of vines climbing the columns, roses blooming freely. Plush furniture and statues are tastefully arranged. There is a pool _and_ a fireplace. It is appropriate for all seasons. It cost an obscene amount of coin, coin that Hawke has no use for with no family. "Sebastian is a fool to give this up."

"I won't argue the point. I would say he's a fool for far many more reasons than that." Anders reaches for her hand but she pulls it away. Hurt marks his features though he masks it easily. "It takes weeks to get here. You'll miss Aveline's wedding. Were you too ashamed to go with me?" she looks at him. "I'm exhausted." He pulls his long coat away, hanging it on the branch of an ivory tree statue that is some distance away but has branches that stretch towards the door. Anders sits on the couch. He wears a thin, white sleeveless shirt beneath and pulls at his collar. His boots make snow puddles on the floor. Hawke keeps from frowning. "In all the years I've known you, you've never left the city."

Hawke smiles. "You rarely leave Darktown." He cranes his neck back to look at her but she doesn't move closer. "I grew tired of the sun." His eyes are brown but with his hair color, she thinks they ought to be blue or green. Nothing is as it should be. "I didn't expect you." He stares at her and she finds herself irritated by the way her words trigger some emotional plain on his face.

His face reddens. "You told me you were coming to Starkhaven. I thought. Well…aside from that I ought to get out of Kirkwall for a while… Aveline would never turn me in while you're around but—you aren't now," he stammers. "She's so busy with the wedding—in a way, she helps balance the Templars and right now." He clears his throat and stands. "I was sure telling me you were coming here was an invitation. Was it?"

Hawke crosses her arms gently. "I know how you worry." He worries too much. He stands there, awkwardly. She moves away from him to the small, delicate table by the pool to grab a towel. "Starkhaven is grand, isn't it?"

"It's ruled by the Templars," he chafes, dark eyebrows knitted. Hawke wonders if Justice will make an appearance. "They're around every corner. The people here stink of money. Fitting. What good is the Chantry for aside from condemning mages and filling their purses? Sebastian's sanctimonious shit makes a lot more sense now."

She extends the towel to him. "Clean up after yourself." He seems surprised at her. She has heard him tell stories of the women he bedded in the Circle. She has even heard these stories from Isabela. They have never provoked jealousy. If anything, Anders seemed a more adventurous man, then. A tad foolish too, perhaps. She watches him get on all fours to clean his mess before sitting anew to remove his boots. "What are you doing?"

"I don't want to keep trailing a mess everywhere."

"I haven't asked you to stay." Hawke runs a hand along her side, smoothing the red silk of the dress.

He glares up at her. "Do you enjoy making me feel like a maniac?" She bites her tongue from telling him that he does a well enough job of it himself. "You let me come over at all hours of the night. We talk constantly about our struggles and the Templars and…our fears. I talk more, I know," he grumbles. "But you listen. That's just as important." He stands and goes to her. "Tell me there's nothing between us."

"There's nothing between us." The words are easy and true. He takes her shoulders, fingers digging painfully. His eyes have taken a blueish hue. Hawke thought Justice only appeared when he raged against the injustice done against mages. She smirks. "Except Justice, it would seem."

He tries to kiss her but she presses a hand to his chest. He hurtles across the room, rolling a few times before stopping. Anders groans, pushing himself up to his knees, using his shoulders and elbows as leverage. Hawke walks to him, hips swaying, the red of her dress trailing behind her. His brown eyes settle on her as if she's hurt him greatly, as if he's been betrayed. She knows those feelings well and doesn't believe he's earned them. She takes his robe from where it hangs and drops it on top of him. "I'm not in the mood. Go away. Return later."

* * *

Aveline's wedding day arrives.

Hawke wouldn't have been able to return in time if she wanted to. As it is, the weather has taken a turn for the worse. Fat, heavy flakes of snow fall in sheets from gray skies. Hawke watches the snowfall for hours before sitting in front of the fire. Leave it to Aveline to get married during the winter. _There's less crime, then. It would be a fine opportunity._

Hawke has never had difficulty being direct. She thought her intentions were clear. It's difficult. There has never been a situation where bluntness and applied force hasn't been enough to meet her goal. Aveline respects strength. Hawke was always softer with her than she should have been. She controlled herself around her. She tried to be courteous. She never pressed Aveline to a wall and kissed her despite her impulse to do so on multiple occasions. Now she's lost her to an idiot guardsman. Bloody Donnic.

She turns the invitation over in her hand.

_Please honor Aveline Vallen & Donnic Hendyr on this most joyous occasion to celebrate their marital union._

There's a bloody marigold drawing on the thick stock. Hawke grits her jaw and listens to the door to her suite come open. She doesn't lift her head even as Anders takes a seat beside her. They have managed to adopt the same habits of Kirkwall, even in the small time they've spent in Starkhaven.

"What is that?" he asks nodding at the card.

She throws it into the fire. Despite her desire to speak she can say nothing, heavy emotion locking her throat tight. The flames lick at the card, charring the edges. She and Anders have seen each other infrequently. His coin ran out quickly and though he never asked and even reported plans of moving somewhere outside of the city, for the time being (the intention being for the two of them to journey back to Kirkwall together), she has allowed him to stay.

"Red looks better on you," Anders says flatly, surveying the black dress she wears. "You look like a mourning widow. No matter what, nothing can take your light." He sighs when she says nothing. "Will this damnable snow ever stop, you think?"

"Must you prattle on?"

"You used to be able to have conversations." He wipes the snow from his face. "I brought dinner. I'll give it to Starkhaven, their cuisine beats Ferelden's and Kirkwall's any day."

"I'm not hungry." Her appetite has lessened over the past few weeks. Now all she feels is a cavernous emptiness accompanied by a throbbing headache. Anders touches her leg and she looks at him. He has supported her decision making often in the past, their only disagreement coming when Hawke decided to aid the Knight-Commander during the qunari rebellion instead of First Enchanter Orsino.

"I worry about you."

"You're sweet," she says quietly. He smiles as if her half-hearted sentiment means everything. She should have fallen in love with him. He's a mage—he understands what's at stake. He risks his life to help poor Fereldan refugees. He's handsome, passionate, intelligent. He loves her. It would be a practical union. She's been lonely for years. She thought Aveline would come around. "I respect you, Anders. I know how you feel. I know what you want from me," she stands. "But I don't love you."

"I know." He grimaces and gets to his feet. "I've been hoping to grow on you. With…things having worked out the way they have…" He's cautious. Hawke waits. "I … hoped there might be an opportunity. I can be a patient man, Hawke. I can be more than you can imagine. I'll treat you well—I'll be at your side through anything. I know how hard it can be… to be like us. I love your ferocity. I love your strength. You may not need me but I need you. You don't love me…but maybe one day… If there's even a chance with you… it would be worth anything. You don't have to be alone."

It is more than anyone else has ever offered her. She cups his face, feeling the bristle of his stubble beneath her hand. His eyes are always shadowed, the strain of Justice, of the years in the Circle, of Templar persecutors, the Grey Wardens, have permanently etched sadness onto his face. Hawke slides her hand back, pulling the ribbon from his hair. It falls free, framing his face. She is struck again by his beauty. Despite the darkness there, despite the stubble and his crooked nose, there is a feminine quality in his features, there is something soft and tender that doesn't exist in her.

She kisses him tentatively but it isn't long before his tongue is in her mouth. He moans enthusiastically, the spark on his tongue coursing like electricity over her.

His hands are hot along her back, pulling the zipper of her dress down, lips eagerly traversing over her flesh and he grunts in his zeal to get to her. She supposes she should be flattered. She catches his lips when she can but feels next to nothing. If only his caresses could urge her heart forward the way a glance from Aveline can. Aveline is no doubt marrying Donnic at this very moment.

She wills her heart to remain bound and compact. Her eyelids burn. His mouth is fire, trailing down to her stomach. She closes her eyes when he kneels before her, submissive, taking her into his mouth. He tells her how sweet she tastes, vague, meaningless words that make her flush.

She tilts her head back, begging the tears to remain contained. A soft, unexpected cry pushes past her lips.


	5. Short: Tomes and Tombs

A/N: I regretted not really exploring Hawke's foray into blood magic. The codexes mention all sorts of shady shenanigans happening in the Darktown sewers.

* * *

Love sits at her feet at the base of the stairs of her Kirkwall home, the perfect gentleman, holding completely still. Hawke smiles at him, dipping her fingers into the white mabari warpaint and painting him in the image of a mabari ghoul. "There's a legend about your sort, Love," she tells him, "Cerberus was supposed to be _the_ greatest mabari ever. Tougher, smarter, deadlier. He may have even had extra heads. But I think you're far better." He laps his lips and Hawke is proud of him for holding still, knowing what he really wants is to run several circles and bark animatedly in agreement. "Careful now, you don't want to ruin your paint before it dries off, do you?" He whines and she leans forward to kiss his nose. "Turn on your side," she tells him. The mabari eagerly complies and she gets to work drawing the equivalent of mabari ribs on him.

"Do you have to make him look so frightening?" Aveline asks. She has dropped by unexpectedly, much to Anders' chagrin, who quickly ducks into the library. "I hoped to have him come along on guard patrols today." She cracks her knuckles and Hawke can see the glint of a gold band on her hand.

"Too bad. Love is coming with me today."

"I'll never understand that ridiculous name," she comes closer to survey the work that Hawke is doing. Love looks up at her from time to time, tongue wagging, slobbering over everything. He reminds her a bit of Anders, but Love happens to be lovable and not quite so angry. "It's not like you to be sentimental."

"Bethany chose it for him," Hawke says. They go quiet, even Love, who licks his chops and then closes his mouth as if to pay respects. The mabari found her in Lothering and despite Hawke's many attempts to move him along, he insisted on staying. It was difficult enough to feed the four of them—another mouth, dog or not, would make things more difficult. It was Bethany, with her sweetness and her ironic sense of humor who'd argued for the name. _You'll speak of love someday, one way or another._ She saddens thinking of her lost sister.

Hawke lifts a hand for him to turn to his other side and he does. She uses the thick paint along his coarse fur, scratching along the back of his ear when he drops on his hind legs before remembering he's to stay still. "You are _such_ a good boy! You're all done. You'll strike fear into the hearts of our enemies, won't you, Love?" He barks cheerfully and she grins at him, painting a white streak across her nose. No longer able to contain his excitement he hops on his hind legs, paws at her chest, nearly knocking her over.

"You're very sweet to him," Aveline says.

Anders skulks out of the library, appearing surprised that Aveline is still in attendance but moving closer to Hawke. "Isn't she? I think she loves Love more than she loves me." Hawke fixes her attention on Love, pouting at him before she smiles and pushes him away. "Are you sure you won't let me go with you today?"

"Perfectly."

"Where are you going?" Aveline asks. "Has she told you? I've pressed. Apparently not hard enough," she mutters.

"Whatever it is, she's keeping it to herself," Anders walks around Love before nodding approvingly. "You'll keep an eye on her for me, won't you? Don't let me down, Love." He receives a particularly wet kiss for his request and wipes away at his face in his disgust. "I'll…never get used to you doing that. I'm going to… clean off. Don't leave without saying goodbye." He moves up the stairs.

Aveline watches him before looking at Hawke. "If you're hiding what you're up to, chances are you're up to nothing good."

"Chances are I don't want anyone interfering."

"That's the same thing."

"Maybe," Hawke says. "But it's not your concern."

The two have scarcely seen one another since Hawke returned from Starkhaven. Aveline has been married. Hawke has spent a great deal of her time collecting Tomes. There are a few in Hightown and she has been able to pay a good sum of coin to have some volumes smuggled out of the Viscount's library. The real prizes, however, are littered in small shops throughout Lowtown, in people's homes, legacies that mean nothing to them. Hawke has been happy to supply coin to liberate the books from their former occupiers. When someone has expressed some…sentimentality, she has applied pressure. In the end, the tomes have been hers and she is accumulating quite a collection. She will bury herself in study. If she knows anything about Kirkwall, it's that it never stays quiet for long. She will not live in the City of Chains. Is being Champion of such a city something to be proud of? Is having status in the Dead City any better? She has heard the new names being tried out for Kirkwall and she does not like them.

"You've always insisted on being difficult," Aveline complains. She looks as if she wants to say more but chooses to hold her tongue instead. Hawke goes to the kitchen to dispose of the bowl filled with the thick paint, the chalky texture and smell nothing to write home about. Love follows after her. Aveline arrives soon after. "Donnic and I are having… a gathering. You know. It's the sort of thing married couples do."

"I don't know about those things," she says lightly. "I take it that you're building to an invitation. But Love and I have other plans. Those plans no longer involve you. Tell Anders I've gone, if you're still milling about. Come on, Love!" She exits the kitchen, grabbing her cloak and staff by the front door and exiting. She pulls the cloak over her head as snow falls slowly overhead. Love walks proudly beside her and she grins at him, happy to have him for company. The air is still remarkably cold and she is unsure whether the Darktown tunnels will be a fetid, disgusting hole of sticky warmth or the sort of bone chilling grip of death that will settle into her and not leave for days.

What is clear is that she and Love must brave it alone.

* * *

The splash of muck puts Hawke on alert. She is sure she wasn't followed. The only thing she can think is that someone waited, hidden in some crevice in the darkness when she initially dropped down. Still, she won't have someone at her back. Love growls and starts to creep toward the entrance. "Careful, boy," she breathes and grips her staff tightly, following after him.

Warm light bathes the wet, grimy walls, moving in their direction. It's not long before Aveline stands before them. Love, much to Hawke's irritation, rushes to see her, waiting anxiously at her side to be petted. Aveline does. She's changed out of her Guard-Captain armor and into some of the old leathers she wore back when they worked with Athenril. The brown leather is broken in, not making any sound despite Aveline's movements.

"You look the part of some coterie trash," Hawke remarks. "You're lucky I didn't kill you." She doesn't lower the staff, eyes raking over her as if searching for a trick. Aveline holds a long blade, not her usual one. She doesn't wear her wedding ring. Hawke reads nothing into it. "What are you doing here?"

"I followed you. The Keep isn't far from your home and I suspected you were up to nothing good if you didn't venture to tell me or Anders. You've said you don't like my guards following you, so you get me instead." Love wags his stump of a tail. Hawke forces her breathing to slow. "I can't make heads or tails as to why you're here," she looks around, lifting the torch to explore the pungent sewers. A drop of water falls on her face and she wipes at it. "These passages are narrow. They're well known for being part of the smuggler trade. Why are _you_ here?"

Hawke turns, not willing to reveal her motivations. The 'water' is ankle deep, green and brown and in places, thick. She wonders what maladies she may contract from the sewage if she isn't careful. "If you're going to be here shut up and don't ask questions."

Aveline scoffs. "Fat chance of that happening."

But she's quiet and they forge through the dark tunnels. It isn't long before they start finding bodies, skeletons withered and aged brown with time, other bodies more recently disposed of. A man in a city-guard uniform. "One of yours?" Hawke asks. Aveline lowers the torch to his face but shakes her head with relief. An imposter.

Love slinks stealthily ahead, low on his haunches, ready to spring into action at any moment. Aveline is at her side. The walls are pressed so closely together that their shoulders inadvertently brush from time to time, making Hawke tense but eliciting no reaction from Aveline.

"Don't you have work to do?" Hawke asks.

"Part of my duty is to keep the city safe. That means keeping an eye on you."

"I recall having a hand in keeping Kirkwall safe. I suppose aid from apostates doesn't really count, much like abuse towards them is not worth mentioning."

"So now the Champion of Kirkwall feels chatty," Aveline says dryly. "You know I don't agree with that." She shakes her head. "You don't bother speaking unless you're working out some fashion of getting under my skin."

Hawke scowls. Yes, she is the Champion of Kirkwall. She's bloody well earned it. If she were any other, she would have been named Viscount. Still, people look at her and think she's been gifted in life, merely for succeeding and thriving when others would have abandoned their dignity and surrendered to the hopelessness of their situation. "I expect you think I should be grateful that you come only when you need a favor." She stops and looks at her. "I see no reason why this occasion should be any different." She rests a hand on her hip. "Are you here because you know I still have my finger on all my old underworld connections?" She tightens the grip on her staff and leans forward, a smile teasing her lips. "If you'd have played nice with Athenril you may still be in the know."

"If I 'played nice' with Athenril I'd be no better than Jevin." Aveline squares her shoulders, eyes menacing on her. "Look me straight in the eye and tell me what the good is in associating with her sort."

Hawke's smile grows wider, sensing an opportunity. She knows how Aveline despises the coterie and the smugglers, the mercenaries and the whores. She never knew how to play a hand, how to take things and twist them to her advantage. Her nobility, her justice, while worth admiring, are terribly limiting. "You tell me, Aveline. How often has your guard received last minute information, warning you of an ambush? Warning of when you would walk into a trap? Or…sending you towards a rare stroke of fortune, catching wanted fiends." She arches an eyebrow. Aveline is puffing up. "I send you an anonymous tip, you and your men dispatch the slave traders, the mercenaries…and in exchange, Athenril gets goods. Goods that no one will miss—unlike the lives of your men."

Aveline's brow furrows. "What are you saying?"

"You know what I'm saying," Hawke says cuttingly. She resumes walking. Aveline takes her shoulder and shoves her into a wall. Hawke's fingers brush the slimy, grainy stone and looks at her. "Are you about to thank me?"

As usual, Aveline misses the point. "You mean to tell me that all these years you've been working with Athenril?"

"Not just her." She straightens her back along the wall, bringing her face closer to Aveline's in the process. "I'm not the daughter of some Orlesian Chevalier. I'm an apostate who spent my life on the run. There are few things I have left." Her eyes shift downward to the left. "I'll do whatever I can to ensure their safety… your piece of mind. Your men are safe. My hands are dirty but your image and virtue are intact."

Aveline's jaw clenches, making it look all the stronger. She brings an arm to Hawke's throat but gives little pressure. Hawke looks back at her. There's anger, to be sure. The rest is unreadable. "Why have you kept this from me?" Hawke doesn't answer. Love whines, standing on his hind legs between them before falling back on all fours again.

"You don't want my help?"

"Not _this_ sort. Not by your… _means_."

"I see." Hawke attempts to push back from the wall but Aveline's arm keeps her pinned. "Then I'm sure you'll stay here, by my side, to oversee some…infraction. You weren't meant to follow me." Aveline brings her face closer. Despite the threat, the interruption of her quest, and the foul smell of the sewers, Hawke can only focus on her lips. "The carta is planning an assault in Lowtown tonight. It's Donnic and Brennan on that roster, isn't it? They mean to take your best and leave your guard scattered. They want to wreck you."

"And you didn't tell me?" her voice quakes with anger.

"I thought you didn't want that sort of help, acquired through those sort of means." Seconds pass. "There's a letter on your desk." The pressure on her throat has been mounting for the past several seconds, the last of the words are croaked out. "Or maybe I'm lying about this one. Do you want to risk it?"

Aveline's eyes narrow to slits. Then, she turns on her heels and runs back to the entrance of the sewers, the splashing echoes of her footsteps following after her. Hawke massages her throat gently. Disappointment burrows into her but she reminds herself that she is now able to commence as she meant to, without anyone hanging over her shoulder.

She explores the tunnels for hours, her and Love's feet moving through the water, the fire she holds in her hand, flickering. Her boots and feet feel disgusting. Eventually she finds a small cache hidden in a wall. The space is of varying size, enough for her to slip in but she isn't sure if it will compress as she goes further in. Only one way to find out. "Looks like we're in luck," she tells Love, sticking her hand between the small space but seeing nothing but black beyond. She takes a breath and squeezes herself into the opening. So far, so good. The opening gets smaller as she moves but she is determined to get to the room beyond. The walls are closing in. Her vision is wavering. The water is slick but the walls are tight. Too tight. She goes dizzy, her body tensing. Her horror builds when she realizes she's stuck, breath coming hard and fast. Soon she's wheezing.

_Close your eyes, close your eyes._ She closes her eyes. Sweat runs down her forehead. She's never liked small spaces. Tight prisons. She's freezing. _It's all right. You're just in a bit of a tight spot._ She smiles faintly at the irony but the mirth doesn't last long. She could blast the confining wall away. It might give her an exit but it might also crush the room she seeks entry into. It might bring Darktown crashing down on her head.

What if she never sees Aveline again? She bites her lip and tries to wiggle to the left. She makes some headway but only manages to get into a painful hold, the rock crushing her chest. She can't lift her hands or move her staff. She swears under her breath. It's nearly impossible to cast spells this way. A violent jerk of her arm only gains her a bleeding cut along her wrist.

She's cold. _Think, Marian, think._ She recalls a spell, as good as blackpowder, ensured to get her free of her difficult situation. The only problem is that she may reduce herself to blood painting the walls in the process. She struggles for another hour feeling herself grow weaker in the process. Would Aveline find her body down here and feel something for her? Or would she forget and move on? Maybe no one would ever find her.

No. She will not die here. She closes her eyes and takes a weak breath. Her arms are losing feeling. She moves her fingers experimentally but isn't sure if they're responding. She can't see them. She recalls an incantation and begins to breathe the words. It always has to be this way when she doesn't have access to a staff or a wand, when her hands are rendered useless. The cool of the Fade moves in. Her eyes are closed but were they open the world would take on cold, smeared hues. She tries to focus. She has to be able to bring up a barrier a fraction of a second after the explosion has ripped her free of the wall. If not, she's nothing.

The last word pushes past her lips when the wall in front of her begins to crack. The sewers grumble. Her arm is numb but she is able to lift her staff, to think of the intent. She's blasted back almost immediately. She isn't sure whether she gets the barrier up or if she's just lucky. Or dead. Or buried alive. Everything is black.

* * *

Is she dead? She should be dead.

Light wanes and flashes, dimming and blindingly bright. Her face is wet and hot. She opens her eyes. Love licks her face. There isn't any sewage here but she's soaked through. Her hands and face are covered in Love's saliva but not only that, blood. Hawke turns on her side, pain explodes through her and she laughs through the hurt. She made it after all.

Love nuzzles his head under her arm, helping her to a sitting. Light burns in a lantern when it shouldn't. It's not possible for a lantern to burn so long and only a child might have passed through the wall to light it. She can't think of anyone who would do that, not even Athenril's little rats.

Around her are piles of books, skeletons draped in extravagant, thick robes. Hawke crawls to them. They wear pendants and rings. The magic comes off from them in waves. Still bleeding she rips the trinkets away from them, cracking necks, breaking fingers. It doesn't matter. They're dead. She clumsily puts the items in her satchel to be studied later.

There's a staff leaning against the wall, ebony in color with crimson running through it, like veins, pulsing, a skull mounted at the top, teeth bared in a proud grin. It's beautiful. Hawke drags herself over to it. Is it lyrium…? No, that would kill her. Unless it's been tempered somehow. She looks at her old staff, broken to the side and stretches her fingers to the new one. She groans at the shooting pain that rips through her stomach but finally her fingers clench around it.

The red within pulses brighter. She's reminded of Fenris' lyrium markings but this is something more. At the touch she feels invigorated, some of the pain in her body subsiding within moments. She gets to her feet, using the staff as a walking stick to help her look around. There is a selection of tomes, ancient, bound it would appear, in skin. She touches a black one, opening it with the greatest of care. There are whispers in her head, there is the promise of knowledge. Her ears are still ringing from the blast.

She means to take the books and return to Hightown but she is spellbound. Bleeding and exhausted, she stands and she reads. Time ceases to have meaning. These books must not be destroyed or be left behind to be defiled. These are precious. They will come home with her. No one else will look at them. The knowledge and power within is for her alone.


	6. Short: Maleficarum

A/N: Last of my extended scenes! This story (as all stories) got away from me. But I really enjoyed this Hawke and her relationship with Aveline so I wanted to explore what I had missed before. I do want to work with these two more but whether I will or not remains to be seen. Guest! Thank you for your wonderful reviews (and the reminder that I needed to post the last chapter). If I explore this Hawke further it may be in a new story?

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"I think she's hurt," Sergeant Melindra says breathlessly, her cheeks flushed red with the cold, snowflakes dotting her eyelids. "There's blood everywhere."

Fenris and Donnic are startled—but drunk. Blast. This is what she gets for taking an evening off to relax with a card game. "I'll handle it," she says exiting the dilapidated mansion, hurrying out into winter night. They'll be no use to her if they're intoxicated and she'd prefer not having to worry about two others.

"I think it's the coterie," Melindra hurries to keep up with her, "I came as quickly as I could."

The wind has a vicious bite. Aveline regrets telling her guards to never engage in combat when Hawke's involved. It's one thing to ask them to keep an eye on her and another altogether to have them thrown into her battles. Hawke tends to act in the best interests of others. Still, despite her controlled nature—there is something reckless about her.

The snowfall is heavy. It's difficult to walk in this, much less fight in it. She hopes that the blood Melindra saw belonged to the coterie. The coterie may outnumber Hawke in a fight but surely she can handle thugs. Hopefully they won't come in endless waves. Sometimes they do that. Kill five, another ten show up, kill ten, another fifteen, the battles are endless, exhausting.

Who would be stupid enough to stand against the Champion of Kirkwall? It's the only hope she can cling to.

They reach their destination. Aveline's heart drops to the pit of her stomach. There are bodies everywhere. The snow is soaked a deep red in the darkness. Aveline can't breathe. "Be careful," she tells Melindra, "they may yet live."

They walk carefully into what's left of the battlefield. There are limbs strewn everywhere. There are men and women whose bodies still spurt out small fountains of blood. She finds one thug on top of another, appearing to have turned against one another. Melindra shakes her head. "There's no honor amongst thieves," she says loudly to be heard over the wind. But where is she?

There have to be at least fifteen bodies. It's hard to tell with all the dismemberment. The darkness doesn't help. Aveline can't stop frowning. Maybe Hawke left. Maybe it wasn't so bad that she couldn't walk away.

"Over here!" Melindra shouts.

Aveline rushes over. She hadn't thought she could go colder but there Hawke is, on her side, motionless. Aveline kneels at her side. "Hawke?" Nothing. "Hawke!" Aveline turns her on her back. Her eyes stare up, sightless. She's white. So white. Not her usual sunkissed tone. "Get Anders. Go. At her estate." Or Darktown. No. At this time, he should be at the estate. "Go now!"

Melindra doesn't wait another moment. Aveline looks around her. She doesn't recognize the sleek, ebony staff. Hawke's dagger is at her side, blood frosting its edge red. Her magic must have been depleted to resort to a blade. There's blood all over her but Aveline can't identify the source. Where did they cut her? They must have, there were so many of them.

She touches Hawke's face. It's cold. "Marian, damn you, don't you do this. Don't you dare." Her eyes burn as she thinks of all their disagreements. Was it worth it? "It's just like you to be this careless. You've always been too proud to run." She brings her head down over her heart. It takes her too long to find it but it's there, a heartbeat, far too slow, slowing further. Aveline looks at her, takes fierce hold of her face. There's blood in her mouth, on her lips. Aveline lays her down gently, placing her hands over her ribcage and pumping down with her hands. She's seen people do this before, when they've dragged sailors out of sea. She isn't exactly sure of what it is she's doing but she hopes it works.

She puts her mouth over hers, feeling slightly immodest and immoral, breathing into her. Hawke's mouth tastes of iron, steel. It doesn't surprise Aveline. If she had imagined Hawke having a taste, this would be it.

Her lips are soft. A strange detail to note.

She continues to pump her ribcage, panic surging through her. Where is Melindra? Where is Anders? Damn it, this isn't up to her. If she was at her side she would have never fallen but now that she has… "Come on," she urges, desperation making her drive her hands more fiercely. Once again she covers Hawke's nose and breathes into her.

Hawke sputters, blood bursting from her mouth, before taking a deep, rasping breath. Relief floods Aveline. Before she can say any happy words, Hawke screams. The sound chills Aveline. She's never heard anything like it. Hawke claws a bloody hand to her cloak, to her heart and she turns on her side, face down on her knees, shrieking.

Aveline thinks she sees a hint of red in her eyes but it happens so suddenly, she isn't sure. She's more preoccupied with Hawke's bloody mouth and hands and clothing, the way she falls forward on her knees and then on the ground, shaking. Aveline's eyes go wide. She didn't think there was anything that could scare her anymore but this—

She reaches out to her but Hawke trembles, as if in a seizure, arm slamming violently into her, knocking her aside. "Hawke!" Aveline circles her arms around her shoulders and waist. Hawke continues to shake uncontrollably, near-impossible to hold. Aveline's had an easier time holding down enraged maniacs. Hawke's legs twist and kick at the ground, throwing piles of bloody snow in every direction. It lasts long, too long, the tears brim at Aveline's eyes. Then, once again, Hawke goes still.

Aveline can't speak, terror has gripped her. Hawke slumps to the side, spitting out blood. She wipes at her mouth and bloody nose, breathing hard. "I'm all right," she wheezes. "I'm all right."

Aveline doesn't let her go.


End file.
